


Caring is a Mistake

by orphan_account



Series: Mistakes Worth Making [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2010-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John finally figure out how they feel about each other after yet another of Sherlock's experiments. Moriarty uses these feelings against Sherlock during their game. Dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> **AN: This fic is going to be dark. Very dark. This first chapter is just because I wanted to write Sherlock and John getting together in a way I could see happening. I'm not sure I succeeded though. Regardless, here is the first chapter. Let me know what you all think.  
> **
> 
>  **This fic starts shortly after the end of The Blind Banker.**

It had all started with a simple experiment.

John had told Sherlock his heart was racing during the immediate aftermath of the incident with the Black Lotus general. Sherlock hadn't know what he had meant, and had asked John what situations lead to this feeling. The answer was disappointing - extreme emotion. Sherlock immediately struck it from his list of things he was likely to experience. Observation would have to suffice then.

Sherlock waited a few days, knowing the variable of Sarah's rejection (something about life-threatening situations) would effect his results. Frightening Watson would take too much effort and would likely damage the working relationship Sherlock had come to enjoy. Anger seemed to be the easiest option, but how to tell if it was working? Blood rushing to the face seemed a reasonable result, and he would have to find a way to take Watson's pulse while he was cross.

With this in mind, Sherlock set out to carry out his experiment. Doing little things like bringing Sherlock his phone when it was nearby seemed the fastest, simplest path to irritation. To have such efforts be drawn out, Sherlock hypothesized, would serve effectively to exacerbate the situation.

"John," Sherlock called, focusing intently on the meaningless microscope slide in front of him, "will you grab my phone?"

"Why can't you do it yourself?" John asked, walking into the kitchen

"I'm in the middle of a very important experiment," Sherlock responded honestly.

"Oh alright. Where is the bloody thing?" John asked, somewhat irritated. Good.

"In my pocket."

John tried Sherlock's chest pocket first, making a frustrated noise when he found nothing. Next on his list was the rear pockets of Sherlock's pants, pulling out quickly when he found nothing.

"Sherlock, I'm not comfortable with this..." John said, his voice shoving obvious signs of strain.

"Please, John?" Sherlock said, sensing results were near.

John heaved a sigh, quickly slopping his hand in and out of Sherlock's pants pocket, finding the phone and practically flung it at him. As soon as Sherlock caught caught it he turned around, taking careful note of John's facial expression. He was flushed, but he did not seem angry or embarrassed. His pupils were dilated, his breathing slightly shallower than usually. John seemed as if he wanted something. Sherlock's slim fingers wrapped themselves around John's wrist, taking note of his slightly elevated pulse and warm skin. John pulled away, mumbling about needing air before sprinting out of the room.

"Interesting," Sherlock remarked aloud to the empty flat. John's heart rate had been elevated, but not what Sherlock would call "racing". Sherlock would need to administer further testing. However, John's reaction had been more in line with desire than anger; an alternate method of experimentation would have to be found.

After waiting a few days to ensure as few erroneous variables as possible, Sherlock sat on the couch, waiting for John to come home. Watson came in the door, bearing groceries and kicked the door shut behind him. Sherlock leaped off the couch and made his way into the entryway.

"John," Sherlock demanded " help with me an experiment."

John rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. Those same eyes widened in surprise when Sherlock pressed his lips to John's.

Sherlock had kissed before; he was an inquisitive man, and he felt experience and experimentation were the only ways to learn. He was familiar with the wetness, the sensation of skin on skin. What he was not familiar with was the way his skin seemed on fire where it was in contact with John, the need to eliminate every atom of space between the two, the need to keep going, the need to taste John, the need for more.

The kiss deepened, and Sherlock moved so that John's back was pressed against the wall, letting out a small involuntary moan when John laced his fingers through Sherlock's hair and tugged just a little.

After several long moments the two parted, needing to breathe. Sherlock pressed his forehead against John's raising one pale finger in a request for silence when he saw his flatmate's mouth opened, primed to question.

"Interesting," Sherlock commented. He seemed more aware of his heart-rate than usual, feeling the beat vibrating throughout his chest. He took his own pulse, eyebrows raising in surprise when he calculated what it was. That would certainly qualify as racing. Was the kiss with John just an anomaly? A coincidence? More testing would be required to reach a definitive answer.

John was...confused. Bewildered, befuddled, confounded, puzzled: you name it, he felt it. That day with Sherlock with the phone was just odd. John hadn't really been able to explain that to himself. But being that close had done something to him, because suddenly all he could think about was how Sherlock smelled, how his hands would feel in John's own, wondering what Sherlock was hiding under that long coat he always wore.

He had had to leave for air then. John Watson did not feel that way about men. John Watson did not think about men like that. There was nothing wrong with it, he wasn't homophobic, but John Watson was not homosexual either. And if he were to start feeling that way, it should not be about Sherlock. Sherlock, who claimed he did not feel. Sherlock, who was John's friend.

In order to avoid repetition of "the episode", as he had taken to calling it, he had tried to avoid being closer to his flatmate than was absolutely necessary. Just when he had thought everything had passed and wouldn't be a problem, Sherlock had started this new damnable experiment.

Four times now. He'd kissed John four times. That first time in the flat, when John had completely lost sight of who he thought he was, all the reasons it was wrong, because all he could think about was Sherlock and kissing Sherlock and Sherlock was kissing him and John wanted more.

And then Sherlock had pulled away and pressed his forehead against John's and hadn't said a word beyond "interesting". John had snapped back to his senses and had vowed to put the whole thing behind him. But then Sherlock had done it again, this time as they were in the middle of running down the street after someone or away from someone - John couldn't really remember.

After the third time John had given up trying to ignore the feelings he was having. He found Sherlock attractive. He wanted to be with Sherlock. And he was so utterly screwed. Because there was no way Sherlock felt the same way. This was just an experiment. John would just have to enjoy it while he could. Which was exactly what he did during the fourth kiss at the park.

The results seemed fairly consistent to Sherlock in the next three trials, regardless of location. John had grown increasingly quiet, but not reluctant, seeming to be assimilating this new data in his own way. After the third successful trial in the park, the two walked home in silence.

"John," Sherlock began once they returned to the flat, "I would like to discuss my latest experiment with you and share some of my findings."

"I'd like that too. Been waiting all bloody week."

John listened as Sherlock explained how it had started out. Explained about the physical reactions he'd been having to John's kisses. Explained what he needed to do next.

John had been remarkably quiet. He thought he understood what Sherlock needed and why he needed it. Sherlock wasn't used to this, and he wanted to test if the change was because of John or if there had been a fundamental shift in his character. John could understand that. But understanding it didn't mean he had to like it. He gave his assent, on the condition that he was allowed to be present.

Sherlock felt that was perfectly fine. John was part of this experiment too. He even went so far as to inquire if John would like to conduct some trials of his own. Sherlock could help but be relieved when John answered no once he had his mouth working. And then Sherlock became annoyed by the relief because it just wasn't logical.

The next day the two made their way into the mortuary at Barts. John hung back, a nervous look on his face, while Sherlock marched in, determined to complete his experiment. It lasted all of four seconds. That was Sherlock's minimum trial period. He thought the location might be responsible, but a quick glance at John was all it took to disprove that hypothesis. He bid good day to the stunned Molly, grabbed the hand of an unhappy John and hailed a cab to take them to Scotland Yard.

"Any new data?" John asked, trying not to let any emotion show in his voice. He didn't succeed, but Sherlock was too wrapped up inside his own head to notice.

"Yes," was Sherlock's only reply.

When thy arrived at Scotland Yard, Sherlock paid the cabbie, and, ensuring John was following, made his way to DI Lestrade's office. John figure out where they were headed fairly quickly and shook his head in resignation. He didn't think there was any way for this to end well.

Sherlock pulled John in behind him before shutting the door and blinds, preventing prying eyes.

Lestrade took in the expression on John's face and knew immediately that something was wrong. Sherlock's intense stare only served to further his convictions. The consulting detective looked at him intently, took several purposeful steps forward until he was standing in front of the Detective Inspector, then stopped. If it were anyone but Sherlock, the DI would have thought he was trying to screw up his courage by his expression, but Sherlock's face soon fell into a look of relief.

"I can't do it," Sherlock said simply. "I just can't make myself do it."

At these words, Dr. Watson became much more relaxed, which allowed the tension Lestrade hadn't know he was feeling to leave his body. He felt it was safe to inquire as to what the whole thing was about, since it was clear London wasn't about to blow.

"Can't make yourself do what?" the curious DI asked.

"Kiss you," John replied, rolling his eyes. Noticing Lestrade's confused, somewhat panicked expression, he continued. "It's to confirm the result of of his latest experiment."

"And what the hell kind results were those? What kind of bloody experiment?" Lestrade asked, his voice raised. What on earth could possibly need confirming through snogging him?

Sherlock took his question under consideration, trying to decided how to best share his findings. Only one method seemed to suffice. He took two long strides towards John, pulling his flatmate into a passionate kiss. When he pulled away, all memories of the horrid awkwardness with Molly had thankfully been removed from his personal definition of the word.

"I am attracted to you Doctor Watson," Sherlock said simply.

John wasn't surprised. He had known that this might be coming. And while it wasn't quite what he wanted, John was willing to take what he could get as far as Sherlock was concerned.

"No, that isn't quite right," said the consulting detective, thinking further on the subject and all the data he had accumulated. It wasn't just physical attraction. "I have feelings for you, John," he said, seeming surprised to be saying the words.

Sherlock took note of the reaction of his partner (hopefully in every sense of the word, if Sherlock had anything to say about it), filing away the image of shocked, stunned happiness for appreciation at a later time.

There were several long moments of silence, and Sherlock had begun to fear rejection as John struggled to find his words. Perhaps he had misread the situation, perhaps John did not feel the same...

John finally found his voice. "If you're shitting me Sherlock..." the doctor began only to be cut off as Sherlock practically pounced on him.

DI Lestrade, standing forgotten behind his desk, wasn't quite sure what to think. John Watson was a good man. He'd been a fantastic influence on Sherlock in the short time he'd been his flatmate. John would be good for Sherlock. And with his addition to danger, Sherlock was good for John from a certain perspective. Lestrade didn't disapprove. He just didn't want to watch the two frenching like that. In his office.

John wanted to keep everything quiet for awhile. He had always thought of himself as straight and was having trouble understanding how his and Sherlock's relationship fit with his identity. Sherlock didn't mind. He seemed to be having much less trouble integrating these new-found feelings into who he was.

This did mean, however, that Lestrade was put in the rather awkward position of knowing while no one else did. And since he knew, he saw. A casual touch here, a gentle squeeze there, a brief kiss when no one was looking. Lestrade even learned that Sherlock's high collar and scarf were no longer for decoration only; when he had returned the scarf after it had been snatched by the wind he caught sight of the new collection of hickey's on Sherlock's neck. Lestrade was treated to seeing exactly how close the two were growing, how far the relationship had progressed.

He was also the only one who knew exactly how much damage was done when John disappeared. **  
**


	2. The Experiment

Sherlock sat in Lestrade's office, supposedly helping with some of the paperwork. Having, under John's watchful eye, returned the plans to Mycroft (John had been convinced that Sherlock would use them to tempt Moriarty out, for some odd reason) Sherlock found himself faced with the unappealing prospect of a night home alone being bored while John paid a visit to Harry. John had left him in inspector Lestrade's keeping and Sherlock hadn't put up much of a fuss. He could wait for the last pip just as well in the DI's office as he could at home. And he was less likely to irritate John by shooting holes in the wall. Sherlock destroyed the flat out of boredom far less often now. He was never bored when John was home. There was so much to learn. About physical intimacy, about emotions, about John. Sherlock didn't think he'd ever run out of experiments to run while John was home.

Lestrade glanced up from his papers to ensure that Sherlock hadn't destroyed anything out of boredom. What he saw disturbed him even more than any destruction could have. Sherlock was smiling. Lestrade had never seen the expression on the consulting detective's face when there wasn't a complicated crime in front of him. It had, however, been cropping up more and more in the presence of Dr. Watson. If it was here, now, he didn't want to know what Sherlock was thinking about. Because the thought of Sherlock thinking about anyone that way, it didn't matter who, was disturbing, let alone the thought of him actually doing anything with anyone.

Both were distracted by the beeping of the pink phone, indicating a new message. Lestrade's face darkened and Sherlock's smile grew brighter. He ensured the phone was on speaker while Lestrade beckoned in everyone nearby. The DI didn't really know why he did it, the only person who had a prayer of being able to solve whatever it was was already in the room. But it let Lestrade feel somewhat useful.

The sound of the last pip sent a thrill of excitement through Sherlock. The final move. It was sure to be the most challenging of all, the most entertaining of all. The text contained not picture, only a web link. Sherlock read the text of the link and the thrill of excitement turned into what he could only assume was fear.

Lestrade glanced up in surprise when he heard a sharp exhale, like someone had been punched in the stomach. Sherlock's face appeared to have lost what little color it possessed. When Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and left the pink one unattended on the desk to make a call in the hallway, that surprise turned to concern. He didn't recognized the name "Harry", but he felt like he had heard it somewhere before.

Lestrade was still trying to puzzle it out while he had Donavan put the address into his computer, eavesdropping on Sherlock at the same time.

"Harry…shut up. Just shut up. Is your brother there?" A pause. "Where is he then?" Sherlock asked in voice so quiet Lestrade could barely hear it. The voice had no emotion, but his hands seemed to be trembling from what Lestrade could see.

Sergeant Donovan's gasp from the computer distracted Lestrade. One glance at the screen and it all made sense. Harry. Harriett Watson. John Watson's sister. John's sister who he was supposed to be visiting. The link was to John's blog, and the newest post would distress anyone who knew the doctor.

Sherlock took utmost care while shutting his phone, trying to prevent unintentional damage. John never made it to visit Harry. He had called to cancel, saying he felt ill. Harry had had no trouble believing, saying he sounded "odd", as she had put it.

Three hours. Moriarty had had John for three hours. The possibilities of what had been inflicted upon John were fairly staggering. The commotion by the computer attracted Sherlock's attention. So they had pulled John's blog up then. Time to see what Moriarty had planned.

Sherlock no longer had to wonder what Moriarty had done to John. The marks on his knuckles suggested he had put up a fight, which gave Sherlock no comfort. There was bruising around John's abdomen, suggesting something amiss with his ribs - either bruised or cracked. Either way it would affect John's breathing. His nose had been broken and one eye was swollen shut. Judging by the angle of his one uncuffed hand and the faint pattern there, on display for Sherlock's examination, it had broken under the force of someone's foot. The injection site at his neck was easy to find, but what Sherlock found most disturbing was the hickey on John's neck. A hickey that Sherlock had not put there.

Under the picture was a simple caption "Found: One lost pet. More information to follow."

Sherlock collapsed into Lestrade's chair, trying to pull himself together. John. Moriarty had taken John. And he knew about their partnership – the mark on John's neck was identical to the one Sherlock had received the night before. What terrified Sherlock was what would have relieved most. There was no evidence of excessive violence, only the type of injuries most likely received in the initial struggle. That meant Moriarty was saving John for something, something that would not en in a few simple bruises and broken bones.

"Jesus Christ," was all Lestrade could manage after reading the calculatingly cold post and examining the picture. When he turned around at the sound of Sherlock's collapse into his chair, he couldn't even manage that. The expression on Sherlock's usually emotionless, impassive face was fixed in an expression of horror and panic.

Lestrade did what he could to try and calm Sherlock down. "There's no bomb, Sherlock," he pointed out, trying to be reassuring.

It had the opposite effect. "He's changed the rules," Sherlock said, trying to keep all the emotions racing through him out of his voice. He was having trouble dealing with them – he had no experience to draw on, and he'd never felt so many so strongly before.

"It's not a bloody game, Sherlock!" Sally shouted.

"It's not to me," not anymore, "But it is to Moriarty. So I still have to play," Sherlock said, trying as best he could to lock everything away. He still had to play – John depended on it. Sherlock's observations had shown that people were more likely to make mistakes when emotion, when they care. And Sherlock cares. Cares deeply. More than John knows. As a part of Sherlock's brain that he still doesn't fully understand frets about never having the chance to tell him, the rest of it is more concerned with calculating exactly what the magnitude of that mistake would be and the probability that he would make it. He already knew what the consequence would be - at least the only one that mattered.

A noise from the computer indicated the blog had been updated. Sally quickly refreshed it as Sherlock forced himself out of the chair, preparing himself for whatever came next.

The picture included John's phone, destroyed and acting as a paperweight for a standard sheet of computer paper covered in typed letters and numbers. "Pet is sick. What should I give him? Call with instructions," read the post that served as a caption.

"What?" asked Lestrade, feeling thoroughly confused. "What is he telling you to do?"

Sherlock pointed to the puncture wound on John's neck in the first picture. "He's been injected with something. A toxin, I assume. Moriarty expects me to deduce what it is and then inform him what antidote he should give John." Sherlock studied the picture intently. "Those first four letters," he said, gesturing to the first grouping of "BJ:CE", "represent numbers. A simple alpha-numeric cipher. 19:24, or seven twenty-four." A quick glance at the clock made Sherlock's stomach tighten. Quarter 'til eleven. "This must have been the time Dr. Watson was injected." Calling him Doctor Watson helped. Helped Sherlock forget that it was John, his John, whose life was on the line. "That is our time limit."

The next series was not so simple: 76cfg81dib87gf75hg92g

Sherlock's brain whirred, trying combination after combination. Alpha-numeric ciphers were meaningless without the key. It couldn't be too complicated, there were very few toxins that could be injected and not kill within three hours. Moriarty wouldn't have given him the puzzle had John already been dead. There would have been no point. The game wasn't about tormenting Sherlock, that was new this round, the game was about Sherlock losing – about Moriarty was better, was cleverer, that his way was best.

"C256 H381 N65 O76 S6" Sherlock barked suddenly. When everyone looked at him sharply in surprise, but made no move to do anything about it, he rattled it off again, demanding they look it up. He would normally have looked it up himself using his phone, but he didn't think he had enough control over his figures to type quickly without making mistakes.

"Insulin," Lestrade replied several long moments later.

"Glucagon then," Sherlock remarked, the pressure in his chest loosening somewhat. He had a solution to the problem, or at least the one immediately on hand. Sherlock moved to replace Lestrade at the desktop so he could update his blog and get John the antidote he needed as soon as possible. He was about to navigate away from John's blog when he caught sight of the last two words of the most recent post again. "Call me."

Jim. Molly's boyfriend. Innocuous, inconsequential Jim. He'd given Sherlock his number earlier in the week, back when the game had first begun. A number he'd left by his microscope a Bart's.

"I need a car, I need it with lights and sirens, and I need it now," Sherlock demanded, dangerously calm. But eyes, his cold, impassive eyes were burning. Lestrade nodded, grabbing his keys and running after the already moving consulting detective.

Sherlock sat in the rear while Lestrade kept shooting him nervous looks using the rear-view mirror. Sherlock's eyes were closed, long fingers steepled, his index fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Other than that, he was completely still, which frightened the Detective inspector. Sherlock was many things around Lestrade, but still and silent had never made the list. Lestrade was struck by the sudden unprecedented urge to ask Sherlock if he was alright. He'd never felt the need to check in on the emotional state of the consulting detective. Lestrade didn't ask the question thought, he knew the answer. Sherlock wouldn't be anywhere near alright until John was back with Sherlock, was safe.

Lestrade pulled up to Barts and shut off the car. The DI turned to Sherlock, already out of the car and in the process of shutting the door.

"I'm coming with you." Lestrade had to do something. John was his friend and Sherlock was…something. He wasn't sure quiet what. Lestrade just wanted to stop feeling so bloodly useless.

"No," Sherlock said firmly. "I may have to leave quickly. I need you here."

Those words again. "I need." He'd Sherlock say them plenty of times before, but never quite like this – so vulnerable. So unlike Sherlock. Lestrade simply nodded. He supposed this qualified as something.

The DI turned to order Sherlock to be careful, but he was too late. Sherlock had taken off, long, lanky legs pumping , spurred into extra speed out of desperation. His dark coat flapped behind him dramatically as Sherlock disappeared into the night.


	3. The Fifth Pip

John groaned, his head pounding, temples throbbing. He kept his eyes firmly shut, knowing the light would do nothing to help with the problem. His mind flashed through his most recent memories, trying to piece together what had happened.

Watching Sherlock hand the plans to Mycroft...walking out of the flat to go see Harry...snatched off the street, forced into a car with tinted windows, but not without a fight. He had managed to do a fair bit of damage despite the initial punch to his face before he had been tackled. One had stepped down hard on his wrist when he reached for his fallen gun, and the sickening snap had told him it was broken. After a kick to the chest for good measure, they had been able to shove him into the vehicle. John had been order to call Harry and cancel at gunpoint. When he saw the silver needle of a syringe, he had started struggling again. The last thing he remembered was the painful impact of the butt of the gun on the back of his head.

John became aware of the sensation of fingers trailing through his hair, his bare back pressed into a mattress and for one glorious moment he thought it had all been a nightmare and that he was in bed at home. But the fingers were wrong, not gentle enough, not long enough. And he very much doubted Sherlock would cuff him to the headboard when his wrist was broken. A tug on his hair snapped his eyes open.

A familiar face loomed over John, but it took him minute to place it. "Jim?" he asked, feeling very confused. What was Molly's gay boyfriend from IT doing here?

"So you do remember me," he said, sounding somewhat pleased. This wasn't the Jim John remembered. He was more confident, his speech pattern had changed, and he carried himself completely differently. "James Moriarty," he said, holding out his hand. "Hi!"

John, forgetting the cuffs, went to punch him in the jaw. Or perhaps it was out of some ingrained polite instinctual need to shake the offered hand, he wasn't completely sure. Neither happened. His broken wrist snagged against the cuffs attached to the bed frame. He couldn't help but let out a curse.

Moriarty laughed, seeming to delight in John's pain. "Do you know why you're here, Johnny?" Moriarty asked, pressing his fingers into John's injured ribs (cracked, John thought) with enough pressure to make his eyes water.

"The fifth pip," he muttered once he felt like he had enough air in his lungs. John took the opportunity to take a brief look at his surroundings. There wasn't much to see. He was in a mostly empty room with concrete walls and floor. A fluorescent light was shining into his eyes from above. The cuffs, his ribs, and his swollen eye made it hard to determine much else. His missing shirt, however, was no where to be found.

Moriarty shook his head, looking exasperated like Sherlock often did when he thought someone was being particularly slow. "That's why you're _here_ ," he said in a tone usually reserved for explaining concepts to very small children. "But why are _you_ here?"

John understood the question now. He knew the answer too. Sherlock. It was about Sherlock. He knew that, had known that from the start. Sherlock had said just earlier that caring about people didn't help save them, had called it a mistake. John was here to get to Sherlock. He was hear to hurt him, to throw him off his game. A hostage. He was a hostage. John struggled against the cuffs, ignoring the pain in wrist as he tried to find a way to put some distance between himself and the madman. John didn't really care about what Moriarty would do to him, the issue was with what Moriarty did to him would do to Sherlock.

Moriarty laughed. "I see you understand. Sherlock will as well, of course, but let's try and make it as clear as possible. I want him to know from the start that everything I do to you, I do because he has 'feelings' for you."

When Moriarty moved towards John, he strained against his bonds again. Moriarty shook his head in resignation like John was a spoiled child who had to be punished before pressing his elbow into John's ribs. The pain stopped his struggles soon, and all John could do was fight to catch his breath as Moriarty moved forward again.

When he felt the lips press against his neck, his stomach plummeted. Moriarty's hands fisted in John's hair, keeping his head pressed into the mattress and preventing struggles. He tugged, pulling some of it out at the roots, causing John to give an involuntary cry of pain. This only seemed to encourage Moriarty to pull harder. John clenched his jaw, determined not to make another sound. John's stomach was churning and his head was in agony and oh god were those his teeth?

Moriarty stopped, finally, and pulled away. John tried not to be sick, tried to ignore the disturbing look of satisfaction on Moriarty's face, the frightening desire in his eyes. John knew it was the desire to hurt him, the desire for Sherlock's reaction, but he still had to see it, still had to wonder what it would mean for him and the man he loved.

John felt off somehow, as if something was wrong. He was dizzy, more dizzy than just his throbbing head should have left him. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he was shaky and anxious. Anyone else might have attributed it to the stress of just having been assaulted and having his hair ripped out while being held hostage by a psychopath, but not John. He knew what stress felt like, knew his bodies reactions. He also knew about overdoses. The syringe, he remembered suddenly. He'd been injected with something.

"What did you give me?" John asked, somewhat panicky. He was finding it harder and harder to get his mouth to form the words he wanted to say.

"That's for me to know and Sherlock to figure out." A careful application of pressure to John's ribs and expert pinches to several nerve clusters left John blinded and unaware of anything except the agonizing pain. He heard Moriarty's voice as if far away, simply saying "smile for the camera." A flash of light.

John knew what was happening. A taunt, a challenge. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to slowly recover once he was sure that nothing else was immediately forthcoming. Moriarty seemed content to let him be, at least momentarily. Coming back into full awareness, or at least as full as his awareness could be while he was hopped up on whatever Moriarty's men had injected him with, John noticed that the angle of his cuffs had changed somewhat, as if they had been removed then reattached. From here, he might be able to break the bones in his hand that would allow him to escape.

"Your wrist has been broken in a way that you won't be able to get enough leverage," Moriarty informed him without so much as a glance in his direction. His eyes were still fixed on the laptop he was typing on at the foot of the bed. John tried not to be surprised, Sherlock did it all the time, that mind reading thing. It shouldn't surprise him that Moriarty could too. But it disturbed him. It was his captor, not his lover, who was inside his head.

Moriarty's lip quirked in a cruel mockery of a smile before shutting the laptop and turning his full attention to John. With Sherlock, having that massive intellect, that staggeringly high IQ focused on John, on making John happy, giving him pleasure, thrilled him. With Moriarty, the massive intellect was fixed on hurting John, on causing him pain, and the army doctor was justifiably terrified.

"Why, Johnny?" Moriarty asked, genuine interest and curiosity in his voice, his finger tracing along the outlines of John's bruises. "What makes you so special? What make Sherlock care?" Moriarty was staring at John the way Sherlock stared at a particularly interesting crime scene or murder victim.

"Your guess is as good as mine," John remarked, staring up into the light, fighting to keep his unresponsive mind on the present, to stay conscious and trying to ignore the pressure of unwelcome fingers tracing patterns on his newly sensitive skin.

"We only have a few minutes before I need to set up for Sherlock's next little game. And then you and I will have hours to figure out this little puzzle." The finger became a finger nail, scratching its way down his chest and across his ribs.

"I find every part of Sherlock fascinating," Moriarty said, going back to just pressing upon John's injuries, this time moving to his face, his dark, empty eyes fixed unnervingly on John's own. "Especially his weaknesses." Moriarty went back to the fingernail again, apparently deciding it was more satisfying. "You are the key to breaking him," Moriarty informed as he traced patterns that removed the skin around John's navel, leaving angry red lines in his wake. "You are his heart," Moriarty said, fascinated by the statement, making an "X" over the organ in question.

A quick glance at the clock ended the encounter. "I have to go meet Sherlock now, Johnny." John's eyes widened in panic. He wanted to shout at Moriarty to stay away, to leave his partner alone, wasn't having him here to torment Sherlock enough? But he couldn't make his mouth work the way he wanted it to.

"I'll be back soon though, and we'll continue our conversation. Meanwhile," Moriarty made some sort of gesture that John's brain wasn't capable of processing at the moment and he heard the sound of footsteps approaching, "some of my boys here are going to help get you ready. They'll freshen you up, get you ready for some of the fun we're going to have later. But I don't want to spoil the surprise." Moriarty winked at John before turning to walk out of the room.

John's stomach sank and he tried very hard not to dwell on the word "fun" as Moriarty's goons unlocked the cuffs and hauled him upright. As they tied the blindfold around his face and shoved in the earplugs before leading him away, all John could do was vow he wouldn't utter a sound no matter what they did. He would not cause Sherlock that pain and refused to give Moriarty that satisfaction.

* * *

 **AN: Reviews are love, and since I am on vacation with my family, any spare love would be very much appreciated.**


	4. Meeting Moriarty

Sherlock stormed into Barts, running quickly through rooms and up flights of stairs until he finally slammed open the door to his lab. Sherlock was prepared to make a mad dash for his microscope and the number nearby when a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye stopped him short.

"Hello Sherlock," Moriarty said, approaching out of the darkness.

Sherlock pulled Lestrade's gun out from the waistband of his jeans, trying not to wince as he remembered the rant John had gone on at one of the characters on a show the other night who had done the same thing. Something about the probability of blowing off your own arse by mistake.

"Has Lestrade been annoying you again? Or are you really just that apprehensive about seeing me?" Moriarty asked, hands stuffed casually in his pockets, a laptop tucked under one arm. He meandered his way towards Sherlock, a smile on his face.

"Both," Sherlock said, cocking the gun with care.

"That's a shame. I had rather thought you had been looking forward to this as much as I have. I do hope you have been enjoying our little game, Sherlock. I cut loose all those people, let you solve all those little problems. Even spent a few million quid to get you to come out and play."

"It's not a game," Sherlock said, voice hoarse with barely restrained emotion, hands still steady, gun trained on Moriarty's forehead.

"It was though. You were having just as much fun as me. But then I took your doctor, took your partner. It wasn't much fun then was it?"

"Glucagon," Sherlock barked out. He wasn't in the mood to listen to Moriarty gloating, didn't want to waste time listen to his deductions. John was what mattered now. All that mattered.

"Oh. Right. Yes. It was insulin I gave the good doctor. I'll tell my boys," Moriarty said, pulling out his phone and sending a quick text. Sherlock could tell by the movements of his fingers what he was writing: _Give him the injection. And get it ready._

"Get what ready?" Sherlock asked.

"The camera. I'm going to let you see your partner, Sherlock. Give you a little reassurance," Moriarty said, his Irish accent giving the words an unaccustomed lilt as he tugged one corner of his mouth up in a little parody of a smile.

Moriarty pulled the laptop out from under his arm and placed it on the table in front of where Sherlock usually sat. A few quick keystrokes later and he turned it, indicating that it was now available for Sherlock's viewing pleasure. Sherlock didn't have much of a choice. He doubted what he saw would be at all reassuring, but he had to see. Had to make sure John was still alive. He had to _know_.

John was alive, that much was clear. But he was not alright. Not by a long shot. John had been restrained to a table of sorts that reminded Sherlock of a stretcher. He was tied at the shoulders and at the calves, his shirt still missing, his eyes covered by a blindfold and Sherlock saw something in John's ears as well, earplugs he assumed. Suspended above the doctor was a clear container filled with a clear liquid. There was a hole in the container of some sort; a drop was poised to fall. Judging by the small patch of wetness on John's forehead, he could guess where gravity would take it.

He closed his eyes, trying to control his horror. "Chinese water torture," he croaked out, feeling as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. It did nothing physically, but mentally, psychologically…it had been known to drive people mad.

"My own little variation. I had to admit, I wasn't sure if the sensory deprivation would add to or detract from the experience as a whole, but I couldn't resist giving it my own touch. John's doing very well, in my opinion. Half an hour and he hasn't made a peep! I wonder how long that will last," Moriarty asked, shooting Sherlock a look that said he intended to find out exactly how long John would last without making a noise and then keep on going.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked in an empty voice, wincing as John visibly flinched and fought against his bonds when the drop landed on his forehead.

"I want you to back off Sherlock. You're in my way, and I just can't have that," Moriarty said, his tone revealing nothing. Sherlock didn't glance at his face to try and get a better read – he had better things to be observing.

"And if I don't?" he asked, finally allowing some of the overwhelming anger he was feeling to seep into his voice. Sherlock didn't know what would ever prevent him from pursuing Moriarty to the ends of the earth after what he had done.

"I will burn you," was the simple response. "I will burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock didn't bother trying to deny ownership of a heart. Evidence to the contrary was sitting right in front of him. John. The only person he cared about, the only one who made Sherlock truly _feel_. His heart. An apt description.

Sherlock closed his eyes, running through scenario after scenario, taking no notice when Moriarty took the laptop and left. He tried to find a solution, tried to think, but all he could see was John, injured and vulnerable, being tortured. He didn't know how long he sat there. All he knew was he _couldn't think_. Only one thing had ever helped him think when his mind was like this. Sherlock forced himself up and over to the cabinet of chemicals, finding the correct one. He reached under the stool he usually perched upon while working and pulled out a syringe. He had been clean for over seven months now, and John would be irate when he found out. But that didn't matter so long as John would be around to be irate.

Sherlock settled into the familiar sensation, relishing the feeling of his brain firing on all pistons. He wasn't sure how long he had been staring at the ceiling when Lestrade finally came up to see what was taking so long. One corner of his brain spared a moment to be glad he had replaced everything. He really wasn't anywhere near in the right frame of mind to deal with an irate Detective Inspector and another lecture about the evils of cocaine.

Sherlock knew everything there was to know about the dangers of his drug of choice. Respiratory issues, possible cardiac problems, hyperactivity, enhanced emotions, performance issues, the list when on and on. Sherlock wasn't worried; he had enough experience to know exactly how he was affected by the drug.

The DI, he observed, had found his gun where Sherlock had left it on the table, and he did not look particularly happy about it having been nicked in the first place. Sherlock was staring intently at a splotch on Mike Stanford's work table, trying to deduce what it was (formaldehyde) and its concentration (8%) while one corner of his mind was observing the DI, another plotting exactly how to locate John and execute a successful rescue, and a third was running through the catalog of the various methods of torture and murder he had come across over the years and compiling an ordered list of what he would inflict upon Moriarty when he found him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, taking in the detective's position. He recognized those steepled fingers, that intent look. He also recognized the dilated pupils and the small sheen of sweat across the consulting detective's forehead. Lestrade had seen Sherlock sober long enough for him to have finally figured out what indicated a natural high from crime and one that was enhanced by chemicals. "Bloody hell, what've you done?"

The word was "what," but the question was "why." Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have told the DI to piss off in no uncertain terms. But these were not normal circumstances, and the anxiety that he had been feeling since John went missing had only been pushed aside, not repressed, and it felt as if it was going to eat at his brain from the inside.

"He was here, waiting for me," Sherlock said, only moving his hands enough so that they wouldn't muffle his words.

"Who?" Lestrade asked, feeling confused. After a few moments, his eyes suddenly widened in fright and understanding. "Moriarty?"

"Gave me some new images of John. Told me to back off. And I just couldn't think. All I can see when I close my eyes is him flinching away, strapped down to that table and I can't concentrate enough to think, and I need to think because if I can't think then I can't save him..." he trailed of, his voice decrescendo in both volume and intensity of emotion. "I can't lose him, Lestrade," he finished in a small voice. "I just can't." He took a deep breath, composing himself, then opened his eyes. "It was the only way I could think clearly enough to help him."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, the harsh words of reprimand dying on his lips after that monologue, although this had helped answer his questions about never finding anything during his "pretend drugs busts". He shook his head, returning his pistol to its holster. The detective couldn't be left alone, not in this state. Lestrade just didn't have the ability to look after him, all the paperwork and arrests and processing for this mad...whatever it was...still had to be finished. Lestrade escorted Sherlock back into the car, all the while sending instructions for a Sergeant to meet them at 221B Baker Street. Police protection, he told himself after sending out the order, not baby-sitting.

Sherlock knew very well what Lestrade was doing. He just didn't care. As long as they left him alone, as long as everyone left him alone until he had the blasted thing figured out, they could do whatever else they wanted.

He was not surprised to see Sgt. Donovan in his living room when he finally made his way back into the flat. She would never pass up a chance to give him a difficult time. He was even less surprised to see Ivan Cherevin, the ex-KGB agent his brother had sent to supervise him in the past whenever he had been in this state. Sherlock ignored them both and threw himself onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling and letting his mind whirr it's way around the problem at hand.

He could hear Sally tapping away on a laptop she had brought with her, as knew the exact moment when she found something of interest based solely upon her changes in breathing. What he was not expecting was that it would have anything to do with the problem Sherlock was focused upon.

"He's updated it again. John's blog," she said, at Sherlock's puzzled glance. "It's been updated."

Sherlock's brain slid to a halt. He and Moriarty had already had their confrontation, had already discussed events. There was no further need to interact. "What does it say?" he asked unwillingly. But he had to know.

"'What you do, he does,'" Sally read off. "Well, what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" she asked the computer screen as if expecting an answer.

"It means," Sherlock said with the same bizarre combination of rage and panic he'd been feeling for the past hour, "that John has just been injected with a 7% solution of crack cocaine."

"What the devil...you're high right now, aren't you? And an injured, abused John Watson has just been dosed because you needed a fix?" She turned to Sherlock, invading the personal space that the man had no concept of. "You know why he's suffering, don't you? Moriarty's done all this," she gestured towards the computer screen with one hand, "because John's your friend."

"No," Sherlock said, unable to resist correcting the Sergeant. "He would have done something if John was my friend. But he's done _this_ because John is my partner."

Sherlock could tell by the expression on her face the second she understood. And she could tell by the expression on his face that he had meant it when he said he wasn't playing anymore.

* * *


	5. Lights Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning: Torture and General John Whump.**

John was drowning. Again.

He keeps trying to tell himself that it isn't real, that his reflexes are playing tricks on him, but those thoughts are impossible to hear when his mind is screaming for him to fight, to swim, to get away and _breathe_.

Greater men than John have cracked under this pressure. John doesn't think of himself as a great man, but he is a desperate one. No matter what they do to him, he will not pass out. John refuses to let himself lose consciousness, refuses to let them win, refuses to let himself be that vulnerable in Moriarty's presence.

John is afraid he might be losing that battle, if the spots swimming across his field of vision are anything to go by. The injection (some sort of drug, he thinks) they gave him some time ago (An hour? A day? John can't tell) hasn't been helping matters any. Not that he can see much with the towel over his face; the only advantage the soaking thing provides is that it keeps him from screaming, something else he has sworn not to do.

The spots converge, become a dark blob that is reaching out to the corners of his vision, and if only he could _breathe,_ but he can't, and he is sure that it is finally over, that this is the end. And John knows Sherlock will be disappointed that he can't come up with anything too original or clever, but really it is _his_ dying thought, so that's just too bad. " _Please, God, let him survive. I love him."_

Because John has no delusions about what his loss would do to Sherlock - it would be devastating. And he has no doubts about how this is going to end. But if he knows that the detective will make it through, will survive mostly intact, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad to finally let go.

The towel is torn from his face and Johns sucks in greedy gulps of air, ignoring the searing pain from his ribs because he just doesn't care as long as there is oxygen in his lungs to push against them. John's vision returns and he almost wishes it hadn't because Moriarty is standing over him with that sick, satisfied grin that makes John's stomach churn.

"I think that's enough for now, Johnny boy. You've done so well. 5 sessions of this and still not a peep!" he said in that stupid, high, sing-songy voice. "I'll give you a tiny little break, and then we're going to try something new. Something even more fun."

John closes his eyes and takes steady, calming breaths. Snapping at the madman will not do any good. Worrying about what is going to happen next isn't going to stop it. So John goes to happier times and places, memories that will help keep him clam, help keep him sane.

Sherlock, of course. The man who would drive most men mad. The way Sherlock lit up when he heard that there was a complicated crime that needed his attention, the expression on his face when he finally had a breakthrough on a particularly challenging puzzle. The predatory glint in his eyes when he looked at John, the way Sherlock's lips felt against his own, against other parts of his body. How Sherlock tasted, how he smelled. And John's personal favorite, the way the two looked when they woke up in the morning - tousled and messy and tangled together.

John begins to worry about his detective, something he hasn't had time to do since all this started, what with his brain not really having the chance to work properly. Sherlock must know he's missing at this point, that first picture has certainly made its way to him and perhaps some of the rest of it has been recorded. It only serves to further his resolve not to make a sound - he refuses to make this any harder for Sherlock to endure than it already must be.

A part of him is praying that Sherlock will find him, will make all of this stop, will make Moriarty pay for what he has done, what he is planning to do. But Moriarty is clever, just as clever as Sherlock, and he is probably counting on this. If Sherlock does find him, Moriarty will kill John. Slowly. In front of Sherlock. And if watching that doesn't break him, then nothing will.

John's concentration is broken when a large man, one of the two who had strapped him to the table in the first place, loosens the straps that hold him down. Despite everything, John still lurched forward, attempting to escape. The man, clearly anticipating this, reached out to push him down. What he had not anticipated was the doctor using his large bulk against him, pulling him down and flipping him despite the way the John's entire body was screaming in protest.

As soon as his assailant was under gravity's control, John forced himself up, maneuvering his way out the restraints. He set his feet on the floor and stood up on relatively unscathed shaky legs, even if the rest of his body was in previously inexperienced amounts of pain. His ribs were in agony and there was a band around his chest and upper arms rubbed raw from his struggles and both were making it difficult to breathe properly. John's legs were weak - he didn't know how long it had been since he had eaten of slept, and that damnable drug hadn't helped. He had a sore patch just below his knees, but his trousers had prevented it from being as bad as the one on his upper body.

John pushed through the pain, knowing he had approximately three more seconds until Moriarty's man picked himself up and came after him. He wouldn't be able to escape - he wasn't naive enough to even think he had a chance, but he might be able to find a way to get Sherlock a message.

There was nothing. The room was concrete, the door metal. All that was in the room was the table he had been strapped to since shortly after he had woken and the bed he had woken on. And sitting, seemingly forgotten, on the edge of the bed was Moriarty's laptop.

John didn't even think about using the laptop as he ambled toward the bed. Moriarty wouldn't have made a mistake that severe. This was another move in his and Sherlock's game. John was a pawn in that game, it was true, but he would rather die than make any move Moriarty wanted him to. He also didn't want to feel helpless, so John used the laptop to bash Moriarty's man, who had recovered and was approaching John from behind, over the head. He smiled in satisfaction as the thug sank to the floor, most likely concussed. John searched his inert form, surprised when he managed to obtain the keys. Perhaps escape was not as improbable as he had first thought.

John limped his way over to the door, stopping to lean against the wall for support as he studied the keypad that secured the door. He channeled his inner Sherlock and studied it, looking for something, anything that would help him narrow down the possibilities. To his great surprise, he found it – four of the keys were wet.

He entered his first attempt with little hope, and gave a small jerk of surprise when it seemed to work. John hobbled over quickly, fumbling for the right key then struggling to turn it before finally jerking the door open – where Moriarty stood with his hands stuffed casually in his pockets, smiling at him.

John's blood ran cold and he blanched, stumbling back slightly. Before he had a chance to react properly, his broken wrist was seized and twisted painfully behind him. He was steered back to the table and forced onto his side.

"Knocking Sebastian unconscious," Moriarty said, sounding amused even as he clicked his tongue, like you would scold a dog. "Naughty thing to do, Johnny boy," Moriarty informed him in a tone that made John's hair stand on end. Moriarty synched the strap tightly around his legs once more, forcing John's hip and his injured against the table painfully. "You need to be punished," he whispered in John's ear as he fastened John's hands in front of him with cuffs that were laced through a slot in the edge of the table.

John tried very hard not to panic when Moriarty made a gesture and he heard footsteps outside of his field of vision that stopped directly behind him. Moriarty pressed his hand into John's shoulder to restrain him. He tried to flinch away, but there was nowhere to go, no way to escape the heat he could feel at his back, a heat that seemed hot enough to scorch even at a distance.

The red-hot metal was pressed into his back, burning and blistering and his back felt like it was on fire. John clenched his mouth shut, so hard his jaw hurt, trying to keep silent. Muffled noises escaped his throat despite his best efforts as the searing brand was pushed even deeper into the skin on his back. John bit his tongue as he struggled to keep himself quiet and his mouth filled with blood, and he was forced to open his mouth to breathe. And then the muffled noises he had been making weren't muffled anymore – John was screaming.

When John could make himself focus on something other than the blistering burns on his back, long after the brand had been removed, he saw the smile on Moriarty's face; he was absolutely beaming, his eyes alight with excitement. It made John's stomach heave; if there had been anything in it, it would have ended up all over the floor. As it was, he managed to eject a strange, bitter combination of blood and bile.

Moriarty pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and cleaned out John's mouth far more gently than John would have expected, before promising John that he would be back shortly, saying "there is so much more fun to be had!"

Before he turned away, however, John could have sworn he saw a tender, somewhat reverent expression on Moriarty's face that nearly made John retch again. It was similar to Sherlock's face as he stroked John's hair at night after their more intimate moments, and that had terrifying implications.

John lay shuddering on the table, feeling as if he might shake himself to pieces. He had been marked – branded like an animal. The metal had been pressed to his skin long enough that the damage was certainly going to permanent, had been pressed so long that he was probably at risk for infection. Moriarty's goal hadn't been safety or sanitation, it had been pain. And he had succeeded.

The tremors faded, passing after an indeterminable amount of time. John steeled himself mentally for whatever was coming next. He would let the "not screaming" bit go, at this point the most important concern was remaining conscious.

John heard footsteps approaching and took as close to a deep, calming breath as he could. When he was unstrapped and hauled to his feet, he didn't try to run, he didn't try anything. All John could do was try to control his shaking as they stripped him of first his trousers, then his shorts. Images of rape danced through his head, but he pushed them aside. If sexual assault had been the intent, surly they would have done something already.

Despite his feeble mental assurances, he had to admit he was more relieved than anyone who was being tortured had right to be when they began to wrap wires around his toes. The nakedness was so they could properly press whatever instrument they were using to generate the electric shock into his testicles. And all John could think was, _oh, thank god._

Moriarty returned as soon as John was fully prepped and watched with rapt attention as John was subjected to current over and over. He absolutely beamed whenever John screamed, far more often now, and the expression on his face as he watched John being tortured was worse than the torture itself.

It was almost a relief when John's battered, bruised, broken and burned body finally gave out, allowing him to escape the pain in favor of darkness.

Almost.

 **Thank you so much for your fantastic, thoughtful, motivating reviews, and please keep them coming!**


	6. Jumpers and Echoes

Sherlock had finally managed to get his mind into some form of order and had begun pursuing Moriarty in earnest. Not Moriarty, John. He had to find John. Sherlock had managed to trace John's path from Scotland Yard to a side street a few blocks away, a short-cut he had learned from Sherlock. John's gun was still there all these hours later, clearly Moriarty had ensured it remained where it had dropped as yet another means of taunting the detective. Sherlock was able to determine the vehicle John had been forced into had gone southwest and had been able to follow its route for a good kilometer before the time passed and the rainfall that had begun twenty minutes before made further tracing impossible.

Sherlock, dripping wet, entire body shaking with barely controlled frustration and despair stood staring at the spot where he had lost the trail – he didn't know how long. He was brought back to awareness by Cheravin's hand on his shoulder, guiding him firmly back towards 221B Baker Street; Sherlock wouldn't think of it as home, not when John wasn't there waiting for him.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and dialed a familiar number as soon as he was in the entryway, trying and not to remember that this was the exact spot where he and John had first laughed together and failing miserably.

"Find him, or I cannot be held responsible for what I do next _,"_ Sherlock paused, before continuing in a small, almost broken voice. "I _need_ him." He hung up quickly, not waiting to hear Mycroft's response, sure to be inane and irritating.

The high from the cocaine was wearing off, and Sherlock could no longer tell whether he was shaking because he was soaked through to the bone and freezing or withdrawal or emotional turmoil and he really didn't care. He walked into the room he and John had chosen to share, gently shutting the door behind him. Sherlock closed his eyes and peeled off his clothes, making his way to the bathroom by memory, by touch, by smell; anything but sight. He didn't want to see the empty bedroom, didn't want yet another reminder of the pain John was suffering. Simple, deep, complicated, intense, fascinating, loving and lovable, _good_ John. And it was all because Sherlock had made the mistake of caring about him.

Sherlock grabbed a towel from the rack, chest growing uncomfortably tight when he realized it was John's. Sherlock pressed it to his face and inhaled, relishing the smell of _home_. The more he thought, sitting against the bathroom wall, John's towel clutched to his face, the more he realized what John would have told him in seconds had he been present to do so – Sherlock was an idiot.

Caring about John was not a weakness. It was a strength, his greatest strength. John had filled an emptiness inside him he hadn't even known was there. He worked best with John, solved cases faster when the two were together. It really is not surprising that the thought of losing that strength, that goodness, fills him with such dread and apprehension. The absence of any strength could be conversely thought of as a weakness – if Sherlock had to worry about someone snatching his intellect and observational skills off the street, the results would likely be of a similar nature, albeit in a much weaker form. Because John is more important, the strength he gives Sherlock much greater.

Caring will help save John, because Sherlock will not rest, will _never_ rest until John is back at his side and Moriarty has paid. His emotions will motivate him, keep him going, keep him attentive. The absence of John is unthinkable, is repulsive to every fiber of his being, every atom, which in turn means that Sherlock will do _anything_ and _everything_ to prevent it. Caring about John makes him stronger.

Sherlock finished toweling himself dry and returned to their room, grabbing the necessary articles of clothing and dressing quickly. He was about to exit the room when a flash of red caught his eye: one of John's jumpers. He walked over and stared at it for some time. His coat was soaked through and he was a tad chilled, the smell of John had helped calm him down, had helped him think clearly. And was it so wrong to have a little of his doctor with him until Sherlock had him back where he belonged.

Four hours, three nicotine patches, and two rotations of Lestrade's baby-sitting detail later, Sherlock had John's location narrowed down to seventeen possible locations, based upon the traffic patterns at the time of day when John had been taken and several deductions about the nature of Moriarty and how he would play this final round. He wouldn't have taken John out of London – it would grate Sherlock much more to know that John was close by and it had still taken him (Sherlock glanced at his phone) over eleven hours and counting to locate him. The buildings were likely to be of an industrial nature, and given what he had deduced from replaying the images Moriarty had shown him over and over - apparently their ingraining into his subconscious had been useful, had a basement.

Sherlock was studying the locations and schematics of the seventeen possible buildings, trying to narrow down the list even further. It was true that with the resources of both Scotland Yard and the entire British government at his disposal, it would be fairly easy to search them all. It would be even easier for Moriarty to get wind of it, and Sherlock wasn't sure he would waste time with relocating John. Better to narrow down the possibilities and reduce the risk.

The pink phone rang. Sherlock took a deep, calming breath and automatically added half an hour recovery time to the "Time John has Been at the Mercy of a Madman" running total in his head. He could, in theory, refuse to answer, but Moriarty might take such a response out on John, and Sherlock couldn't _not know_. He hit the appropriate button on the screen and held it to his ear, remaining silent. His job was to listen, not to speak.

"Johnny boy really has been quite uncooperative, Sherlock. You really should do a better job training your pets," Moriarty commented. "Anyway, he's finally managed to do the right thing despite all his efforts otherwise, and I think you should have the pleasure of hearing the words from the horses' mouth."

Sherlock had to hold the phone away from his ear as the sound of John's screaming filled the flat, and for several moments Sherlock could do nothing but imagine what could drive an Afghani War veteran to make that sort of sound. Then he considered Moriarty's words and his lips twitched in what under other circumstances might have been considered a smile – Moriarty had had John for a little over eleven hours and this had been the first time he had gotten the man to scream. The twitch soon stopped to be replaced by a slight muscle spasm in his cheek as the noise continued. If John had managed to thwart Moriarty's attempts to this long, it was possible that the man had felt the need to get creative.

The screaming became a background noise as Moriarty took the phone away from John, returning it to his own ear, Sherlock assumed. "When I find you, I will kill you as slowly as possible, tear your body into small pieces, feed those pieces to rats, and then set those rats on fire."

Moriarty gave a small sigh. "I had rather thought you could be more creative than that, Sherlock. No matter. The question really is, will you be able to find me before I bend Johnny so far that he breaks? So far that he shatters into little pieces that no one will be able to put back together? Because I can. And I will." The line was cut off abruptly.

Sherlock fell into John's chair, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, pressing his forehead into his legs as he tried to physically hold himself together. He would find John, he knew that much. It was only a matter of time at this point. But what would be waiting for him when he got there? Sherlock took deep breaths, taking comfort from the smell and feel of the jumper wrapped around him, slowly getting a handle on his panic. He would find John. John would be fine. It might take time and work and care, but John would be fine. Sherlock would see to that.

He looked up at took a look at the clock. Thirty-five minutes. Not awful, but not good either. Sherlock slowly unfolded himself and stood, returning once again to examining the building plans before him. Moriarty wouldn't have bothered with taunting him if he hadn't been on the right track, but all he could seem to hear was John's screams echoing in his head.

Echoing.

 _Echoes._

Sherlock stared intently at the images and dimensions in front of him, using what he remembered of the sound waves from the phone to calculate the dimensions of the room where John was being held. Once he felt he had them down to an acceptable margin of error, he examine the data once again, tearing down possibility after possibility that no longer fit with the new data.

Two buildings left. So close, but still not close enough.

"Cheravin!" Sherlock bellowed. The man was beside him in a second. "You teach physics when my brother doesn't have you on baby-sitting duty, do you not? Good," he continued, not bothering to wait for a response. "The materials used to make these two buildings are of similar densities. What I need to know is which would absorb sound more effectively."

The older man, beginning to lose the hair at the crown of his head, considered the problem at hand carefully. After three seconds that seemed like three years to Sherlock, he pointed at one of the pictures, saying in his still heavy Russian accent "That would absorb sound better."

Sherlock would have kissed the man had he not already been out the door. He hailed a taxi almost as soon as he had set foot out the door and told the driver the address, making it clear that timeliness would be rewarded. As the cab shot forward at speeds that were far beyond the legal limit, Sherlock pulled out his phone and informed his brother of his current course of action. That taken care of, Sherlock stared out the window, wishing he could motivate the cab through his need alone.

And as boring, dull, pedestrian and predictable as it was, all Sherlock could think was _Hold on John, I'm almost there._


	7. A New Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Jim Moriarty's perspective. You have been warned.**

Jim hadn't understood, not at first. Johnny was so pedestrian, so boring. Dull. He had thought he was merely a hired gun of sorts, another set of hands and legs to Sherlock. Sherlock's Moran. But his reactions to John had indicated otherwise. When the two had become intimate, Jim had to admit he couldn't fathom it. What on earth about Dr. Watson could have captivated Sherlock Holmes?

After the last twelve hours, he thought he was beginning to understand. Something about Johnny was _fascinating,_ Jim couldn't help but muse as he carded his hand through the bristles at the base of his neck, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips as he recalled the small cries of pain John made when he had tugged some of his hairs out. John didn't protest- his battered body had finally collapsed despite the way his mind must have rebelled at being left this vulnerable. The human body could only take so much - few people would have made it past the water boarding, fewer still through the branding. That John had lasted until electric shock was remarkable in and of itself, that he had lasted twenty minutes was improbable, and Jim found himself impressed.

Johnny was all dressed now, wrapped up like a present for Sherlock. Jim outright smiled as he slipped a hand under Johnny's shirt, idly tracing the letters forever burned into his back. A reminder. A warning. A promise. Part of Johnny would always be in this room, would always be with Jim. Sherlock would know it, would see it every day and remember exactly what had caused it.

Jim wondered if there was some way he could remind himself. It there was any way he could relive the expression on John's face when he understands why he has been taken, that burning in his eyes as he fights the urge to scream because he knows that is what Jim wants and is what will hurt Sherlock. The beautiful noise he makes when his control finally shatters into pieces and Jim knows it is all because of _him_ that Johnny is screaming like that.

Twelve hours is not enough for Stockholm syndrome, not the way Jim has been treating Johnny. But perhaps it is enough for Lima syndrome. Moriarty scoffs and dismisses the thought. He does not _sympathize_ with Johnny. He simply doesn't want to lose him. This, of course, makes his original plan of torturing John to death while Sherlock watches impractical.

A new plan occurs to Jim. One that will benefit everyone involved. Sherlock will stay here, will stay with him, with Johnny. Because Sherlock cannot afford to lose John. Jim and Sherlock will work together, both consulting criminals. They'll have Johnny to keep them from being bored. Jim will still be able to play with Johnny, no matter how Sherlock dislikes it. Because Sherlock will be there to comfort him, and he'll still have him most of the time. They'll just have to learn to share.

Jim knows Sherlock is on his way. He will let him find them. Let Sherlock and John be alone for a bit. It will help convince Sherlock that he cannot be away from John. And isn't Stockholm more common if the captive thinks his captor kind? What could be kinder than giving him some time alone with man he loves? Jim will watch and wait, and when the time is right, will inform. And what the three of them will create together, it will be beautiful.

Sherlock arrives four minutes ahead of schedule. The door is forced open with a resounding crash and he can tell from the look on Sherlock's face that he knows it has been too easy, that Moriarty has let him get this far. But then he sees John, and the expression on his face is so _wonderful_ , so breathtakingly broken. Sherlock's brain must cease to function, because he rushes over to John and onto the bed beside him without checking for traps. But he understands when the long, dexterous fingers wrap themselves around John's wrist.

Sherlock heaves a sigh of relief and his whole body relaxes, as if his bones have melted. He takes in John's condition, what little of it he can see, and his cheek twitches in that adorable way and Sherlock is angry, _furious_ , and his eyes fix on the camera an make an unspoken promise – _you will suffer before you die, before I kill you_. He carefully wipes away his expression, message delivered, and turns to more important matters. He gently lifts John's head into his lap, wincing as he sees how much damage has been done. He strokes his hands along John's face and arms gently, offering silent comfort.

John groans, finally coming back to the land of the living. "Jesus Christ," he mutters, the only expression of pain he would allow himself.

Sherlock smiles, but it is only a movement of his facial muscles, there is no emotion behind it. "Not quiet," is his only response.

"Sherlock?" John asked, he voice a blend of confusion and happiness and relief and hope. Sherlock's hands keep up their soothing rhythm as he hums wordlessly in affirmation. Johnny opens his eyes not trusting his ears, which really doesn't surprise Jim given the Chinese water torture and cocaine from earlier. "Sherlock," he says again, resigned this time. But his lips turn up in a little smile.

Still smiling, Johnny opens his eyes again and reaches up, tracing his fingers along the prominent cheekbones and along his nose. Jim shouldn't be surprised, but he is. He can tell from Johnny's always expressive face that he is saying goodbyes. Johnny knows now that Sherlock is here, it is the endgame. Jim is fairly certain that Johnny knew how the game was supposed to end. How the game was going to end before Jim had gotten to know Johnny. He shakes his head and lets out a little chuckle – this is exactly why the ending has changed.

"Stop that," says Sherlock, undoubtedly seeing what John is trying to do. "You're hurt."

"Doesn't matter," is his response. Sherlock pulls Johnny's uninjured hand up and presses it against his cheek. He doesn't seem to realize that he's started crying. Jim can't help but shake his head. A sociopath crying - it just wasn't dignified.

"Are you wearing my jumper?" Johnny croaked out, lips twitching.

"Perhaps," Sherlock said simply, releasing Johnny's hand and tracing his own figures over Johnny's features, as if trying to memorize them through touch alone.

Jim decided he will give them two more minutes together before he and Sherlock have another chat. Two minutes for Sherlock to realize exactly what losing John will do to him. Two minutes for Jim to observe their interactions.

That time is cut short by the appearance of Sebastian Moran. Jim heaved a sigh as he pushed himself away from the monitors. He had thought this might be a problem, but Jim had thought it would have taken longer. To think twelve hours and one concussion had been enough to make Moran irritated and jealous. It was a shame, really. Sebastian had been fairly good at his job, and it had taken a fair amount of effort to get him that way. He would be somewhat difficult to replace. Jim couldn't help but heave a sigh as he pulled a pistol out of a nearby drawer. He _so_ hated getting his hands dirty, but this was a special occasion, he supposed.

Jim made his way to Johnny's space, as he had begun to think of it, ensuring the gun was ready for use. Moran was going on and on about John and Sherlock and how inferior they were. It was really quite dull. Jim pulled the trigger and watched with disinterest as Moran fell to the floor.

The gun in Sherlock's hand (Johnny's) moved to Jim as soon as he was sure that Moran was no longer a threat. He made a careful study of Jim's face before setting down the gun and throwing his head against the headboard.

"Oh _bloody hell_ ," was all the usually eloquent and verbose detective could manage.

Jim chuckled, enjoying the look on his counterpart's face. "Is it really so surprising, Sherlock?"

Jim could see the fire return to Johnny's eyes as he took in the situation. It was clear he wanted to avoid prolonging Sherlock's suffering. Ripping the plaster off, as it were. How adorable. "Would you just kill me and get it over with?" John Watson asked, seemingly resigned to his fate.

"He's not going to kill you," Sherlock said, staring venomously at the consulting criminal. "He wants to keep you."

"Bollocks," was Johnny's immediate incredulous response.

"Come now, Johnny," Jim said, taking pleasure in the way the doctor flinched in terror at the mere sound of his voice. "You made a sociopath fall in love. Is it really so unfathomable that you could make a psychopath possessive?" Jim smiled when he saw the way Johnny's eyes widened in terror as he understood exactly what it was Moriarty was planning. The last twelve hours. Every day, for the rest of their lives. The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. "I have always wanted a pet."

Sherlock looked down at the fantastic expression on Johnny's face, at his battered body, and picked up the gun once again. "What if I was to shoot you now? Right now?"

Jim gave a small signal. Nothing flashy, but three laser sniper sights suddenly appeared on Johnny's chest. "If I die," Jim began in a bored tone, "so does Johnny. I'm sure you've figured out exactly how much I've got going on out there. And if I die, every single member of that vast web, this giant organization, will target him. And no matter how you protect him, one of them is certain to succeed," Jim finished, brushing lint off his suit as if he'd just been having a conversation about the weather.

Sherlock's jaw clenched. Not surprised, not at all, but _not_ happy. He threw the gun back onto the bed and wrapped his arms protectively around Johnny.

Jim nodded, happy to have that sorted. Now, on to the net problem. "Call off Mycroft," he ordered the detective. Sherlock glared up, face hard and unyielding. Jim sighed. He had rather hoped he wouldn't have to spell it out, although he had to admit the alternative he was describing was not without appeal. "How long do you think it will take for me and Johnny to disappear from here?"

Sherlock looked around the room, running calculations in his head as he considered the floor plan and the overall location, or so Jim assumed. "Sixty seconds," he answered with assurance.

"Forty-five," Jim corrected. Mycroft is still two minutes away. Plenty of time to get me and Johnny out. And if Mycroft comes, Sherlock, you won't."

"I'd follow you," Sherlock promised. "I'd never stop following you."

"I doubt even you could keep up with a bullet through your kneecap," Jim replied, coking the gun he still held in his hands. "If Johnny and I vanish, I guarantee you will not see hide nor hair of us for at least a year. And we've had so much fun in twelve hours. Think of what we could do in a year. Who knows what you'd find?"

Sherlock's eyes were blazing, one hand no longer clasped around Johnny now clenched in a fist. His skin was stretched so tightly across his knuckles it looked as if his sharp bones would puncture it.

"Hang on, back up a bit. What?" Johnny said, clearly confused. Jim sighed. So dense, so dull. But to be fair, he was under extreme physical, emotional, and psychological strain.

"I'm coming with you, obviously," Sherlock said, pulling out his phone and texting furiously. "I will not leave you alone with him given any other option. Looks as if I'll be joining the criminal class after all." He slid his phone shut. "But make no mistake, Moriarty. I will bring this organization crashing down around your ears. And then I will destroy you," Sherlock vowed, his eyes alight with passion. "I will _incinerate_ you."

Jim smiled, proud. He and Sherlock were growing more and more alike. Two sides of a coin, he often thought of Sherlock and him. But the space between those sides was shrinking, and if everything kept going the way it had, that space would disappear.

"Well, Sherlock, despite whatever warning you have given your brother, I think it best we be on our way. If you'll be a dear and just grab Jonny," he began, only to find himself sharply cut off as the breath was knocked out of him as something connected with him at his midriff.

"Sergeant _Donovan_?" Sherlock asked, his voice filled with all the surprise Jim himself was feeling. She loathed the detective. Sally Donovan hadn't even made the first draft of the very long list of people who could have interfered at this juncture.

"I figured," she said, hauling the still stunned Moriarty up by the collar of his suit, "that The Freak would never, ever expect this. Which meant neither would you, Psycho," she said, cuffing his hands behind his back.

"Excellent deduction, Sally," Sherlock said, seemingly impressed. Jim had to admit he was as well.

Jim considered his options at this point. Escape would be easy, laughably so. However, at this juncture he would have to leave Johnny behind. He could collect him again later, and it would be an interesting challenge to get him by whatever security Sherlock developed.

The other choice was to allow himself to be taken, to be arrested. It would be child's play to keep things going, right under the noses of the Holmes brother, to watch them grow more and more frustrated at his antics when they could watch his every move. And for Sherlock to know he was there, to know he was in custody and yet not be able to touch him…it would be _wonderful_. Johnny would need time to recover before they could play again anyway, and Jim would escape whenever he got bored of the whole thing. He shot Sherlock a smile, and when his cheek did that adorable twitching, he knew he understood.

Everyone, saving Sgt. Donovan, glanced up at a loud thud. His snipers were clearly being taken care of by the ex-KGB professor who Mycroft employed to babysit his little brother. Sherlock gave Sally and appreciative nod before carefully settling John back on the mattress and unfolding himself.

He dismounted onto the floor. "Mycroft should be here any minute," the detective informed the sergeant. "He'll have ignored my instructions of course," Sherlock said, dialing his brother's number.

Sherlock was standing next to the bed, giving Mycroft heated directions when it happened. Cheravin was having some difficulty disarming Freeman, and during the struggle Freeman's finger tightened on the trigger, sending a bullet at Sherlock Holmes. Judging by the angle and trajectory, it wouldn't be fatal, so Jim wasn't too concerned.

Johnny, however, was. Summoning reserves of strength that were usually utilized for ripping cars off small children, John launched himself off the bed and into the consulting detective, knocking Sherlock out of harm's way and earning himself a new gunshot wound.

For a moment, Jim was mesmerized by the crimson staining Johnny's white shirt. In spite of everything he had done, he hadn't broken the doctor's skin, and he found himself just as transfixed as he had been after the branding. He shook of his fascination and gave the required directive, smiling in satisfaction at the gunshot that took Freeman's life. No one was allowed to hurt Johnny. That was Jim's privilege, and his alone.

Sherlock's eyes were blank, panic seemingly disconnecting his brain as he looked at John. He seemed to snap back into himself before rushing over and putting pressure on the wound and muttering about the stupidity of bravery and there being a reason heroes didn't exist since they were always getting themselves killed and don't you dare.

Judging by the noises and sirens, Mycroft and emergency services had arrived. Jim had made his own assessments from where he stood with Sgt. Donovan and was content that Johnny would make it through the ordeal alive. Sherlock had undoubtedly come to the same conclusion, but made no move to leave John's side until forced away by anxious paramedics. He turned to Jim, rage making his eyes smolder.

Seven words are all it takes to for that rage to boil over, to make the detective erupt. All it takes to incite Sherlock to violence that will leave Moriarty unconscious.

"All is fair in love and war."


	8. Devotion

By the time Sally, Lestrade, and two large men under the employ of an enigmatic man with an umbrella managed to pull Sherlock away from The Psycho (Sally is fairly sure they only managed it because Dr. Watson's ambulance was about to leave) he had fractured the man's jaw and broken at least five other bones. It might have been more, that was she could see before they loaded him into an ambulance all his own. She was personally all in favor of letting him bleed to death on the concrete floor, but all the people who had been strapped to bombs deserved to have their say, to meet the man who had set up this insanity.

Sally rode in the ambulance with The Psycho, it was her job as the arresting officer, along with a woman who seemed to have a PDA attached to her hands.

"Sorry, who are you?" Sgt. Donovan asked, hands twitching subconsciously reaching towards her gun.

The well dressed woman across from her tilted her head to the side, seemingly pondering. "Kathryn," she answered after a pause, looking fairly pleased with her response.

"That's great and all, but _who are you_?"

"A representative of a concerned party."

"Listen, _Kathryn_ , this is a dangerous, criminally insane, evil genius bomber. If you think I'm going to let just anyone within five feet of him, you are sadly mistaken."

"The concerned party is Mycroft Holmes."

Sally paused at that. Sherlock had a family. She knew that he had to, he couldn't have just popped into existence one day, but the idea of him with something as normal as a father or a brother or an uncle just didn't compute.

The name Mycroft also meant something. He'd been the one Sherlock had called as soon as everything was winding down. The Sergeant left it at that. After having to watch The Freak in an absolute, thoughtless panic for two hours that afternoon, she knew that he would only let someone he trusted implicitly anywhere near his…near John. If Sherlock had trusted this Mycroft fellow with any part of John's retrieval, Sally was willing to trust his assistant enough to let her in the ambulance.

The idea of John and Sherlock together still baffled Sally. John Watson was a nice enough bloke, and he _had_ been in the army, but she just hadn't thought he swung that way. And The Freak? Sherlock Holmes as anything other than asexual just refused to compute in her brain.

Sally shook her head, trying to think about something else; thinking about the two of them together made her think of the look on Sherlock's face in Lestrade's office. In his flat, the look of crazed, uncontrolled desperation.

Sergeant Donovan looked down with unmasked disgust at the man strapped to the gurney in front of her. He seemed so average, so unremarkable, but didn't they always? Staring down at the mad bomber, Sally was forced to admit how wrong she had been about The Freak. She now knew exactly what his great intellect would look like when used by a true psychopath, and what Sherlock did was nowhere close.

They arrived at the A&E a few minutes later, just as The Psycho was starting to stir. Before the paramedics could do anything, the rear doors to the ambulance were practically ripped off their hinges. Sherlock stood silhouetted in the doorway, the morning sun turning his dark hair a red color that matched the burning in his eyes.

The Psycho saw it and smiled, like it was the best possible thing to wake up to – and it might have been in his dark and twisted brain. "Has Johnny been telling you about our time together?"

"What did you _do,_ Moriarty?" he seethed in a voice Sally imagined might be used by an irate, vengeful god.

The madman, Morality, smiled as if remembering a good shag or a pleasant dream. Sherlock forced his way into the ambulance, facing no resistance from "Kathryn" or the Sergeant. Sherlock lifted him by the lapels of his suit, ignoring the protests of the medical staff.

"He's gone into shock," Sherlock hissed. "They won't be able to treat him properly if they don't know. At this moment, with the incomplete information they have, there is a significantly high probability that he will die."

Sally expected Moriarty to laugh. She expected him to scoff at Sherlock's concern, at his weakness, expected him to say that it was what he had planned, what he had counted on. What she did not expect was for Moriarty's face to lose color, for his lip to curl in the way a normal person might react to a description of what Moriarty had spent the past week doing.

"Broken wrist, cracked ribs, insulin overdose, glucagon injection, Chinese water torture, injected with a 7% cocaine solution, 5 sessions of water boarding generally lasting twenty minutes, friction burns around his chest and upper arms resulting from his struggles against the restraints, 3rd degree burns on approximately 75% of his back, and electric shocks of various amperages and voltages."

Sherlock didn't look surprised at the first six or so items on the disturbingly long list. As Moriarty continued, his hands got tighter and tighter, his jaw clenched and his cheek twitching, his breath coming faster and harder.

"I'll have to be more careful next time," Moriarty said, clearly enjoying Sherlock's reaction.

"There will not be a next time!" Sherlock bellowed. " _You will_ _ **never**_ _touch him again!_ "

After Moriarty's monologue none of the paramedics protested when Sherlock threw the man down onto the gurney. From the look in his eyes, Sally could tell he wanted nothing more than to break another bone or seven, but John needed him. Sherlock contented himself with spitting on the madman's face before getting the information to John's doctors.

Sally looked down with undisguised contempt. There was torture, and then there was _torture_. And this _thing_ on the stretcher (she refused to think of him as human) got off on it. Somehow, Sherlock's need to break his bones into small pieces didn't seem so unreasonable any more.

Moriarty looked up at her and grinned. "Leave the contemplation of violence to the experts, Sally dear. But if you are so keen to learn, I promise that you'll be getting a personal demonstration sometime soon." And his dark, empty eyes met hers, and Sally couldn't help but shudder.

She sat outside the room once they had The Psycho settled in, doing her duty but refusing to be in the same space as him. Sally had wrecked his plans, and Moriarty had made it very clear he would not take to that kindly. Sally tried comforting herself with the fact that he was in custody, but given what she had seen over the past week, Sgt. Donovan doubted that it would make any difference.

Sally sat there, her thoughts in dark places for the remainder of her shift and then several hours longer. She didn't move until the Sergeant who replaced her forcibly removed her from the chair, a small little smile on his face that said _I understand. Go home and get some rest._

Sally didn't want to go home, didn't want to go back to her empty flat with The Psycho's threats ringing in her ears. She decided instead to head down to the hospital Cafe for a good, strong cup of tea. It had been a very long eighteen hours and counting; Sergeant Donovan didn't plan on resting any time soon.

Twenty minutes later, a newly caffeinated Sally set out to check on Doctor Watson. She hadn't been able to see him in person while on duty, but everyone had been given periodic updates. It had apparently been touch-and-go for a bit at the beginning, but John had stabilized since then. Now his battered body had escaped to unconsciousness to give him some time to recuperate. Other than the fluids being pumped into him, he had been seriously dehydrated, he wasn't under any severe medical care.

Sgt. Donovan was about a hallway away when she heard a loud noise coming from the direction of John's room. She pulled out her gun and sprinted the rest of the way, just in time to see two officers bodily flung from the room.

"You can bloody well take your statement, but _no one_ who I have not explicitly and personally approved is allowed within twenty feet of him. That includes your men, Mycroft."

"I assure you, Sherlock," began a strangely calm, unfamiliar voice, "that I have taken utmost care in..."

"Then how was he taken?" Sherlock interrupted. His question was met with only silence.

Sally turned to leave. Sherlock's concern was understandable, although she very much doubted John would allow it to continue once he had recovered.

"Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock called out, halting her steps. "Lestrade refuses to have John here without some sort of police presence. I refuse to let all but four people anywhere near him. You are the only intersecting party excluding Lestrade. Come in please." Sally walked back to the door, staring at him incredulously. "You were coming to check on him, were you not?"

"Yes, but..." She paused, trying to find a tactful way to ask what she wanted to know. Then Sally remembered who she was talking to. "How in hell did I make it on your list?"

"You stopped him," was the simple response.

Sgt. Donovan was unable to stop the slight shudder that ran down her spine. Yes, she had stopped him, and she would never regret that. But what would be the personal cost? Sally shook it off and walked slowly into the room, hoping no one had seen.

Sally took careful stock of the room, looking for a spare place to sit. John's room was larger than average, quiet spacious in fact. Lestrade was staring daggers at Sherlock, who in turn was fixing the DI with a look that would have frozen fire. Sherlock had maneuvered his chair as close as was physically possible to John's bed. The man with the umbrella was sitting in the corner opposite the door, looking thoroughly bored with the whole situation.

The rhythmic beeping of the various machines attached to Doctor Watson provided the only noise in the now silent room. Sally slipped into the one remaining chair, taking a look at the man in the bed.

His face was stained purple and black, one eye swollen shut. John's wrist had been put in a cast and there were bandages wrapped around all of his torso that was visible above the blanket. Sally couldn't help but shudder again as she wondered if that was what her corpse would look like when they found it.

Sherlock, as usual, missed nothing. "Lestrade, where has Sgt. Donovan been for the past six hours?" he asked, voice deadly calm.

"She was on duty for one, and then I assume she went home."

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't take any steps because I thought you would be relatively competent in this one area. Your stupidity is truly astounding and I will never underestimate it again."

"Now, wait just a minute..."

The consulting detective ignored him as usual, continuing whatever train of thought he was on. "Sally hasn't been home in at least twenty hours. She hasn't left the hospital since she got here, staying in areas with plenty of witnesses. Sergeant Donovan, who I have never seen phased by a criminal during my observations of her, is frightened." He heaved a deep sigh. "You had her guard his room, didn't you?"

Lestrade, sensing he had done something wrong, but also sensing that now was not a time to argue with Sherlock, nodded.

"And it never occurred to you that after thwarting his plans, Moriarty might have threatened the Sergeant? And that after hearing the catalog of tortures he inflicted upon John in twelve hours, she just might listen?"

Lestrade took in Sally's state with new eyes. "Bloody Hell, Sally, what did he say?"

"Nothing explicit. I guess he thought it better to leave it up to my imagination, pathetic as it is," she said simply.

There were several long moments of silence before Lestrade returned to the matter at hand. "Sgt. Donovan ruined his plan? And what plan was that?"

Sherlock's face darkened, his jaw clenched, and he wrapped both his hands tightly around John's uninjured one, as if reassuring himself the doctor was still there. The man with the umbrella leaned forward, seemingly surprised by the reaction.

"What was the plan, Sherlock?" he demanded in a surprisingly soft voice.

"During the twelve hours he held him hostage, Moriarty became...attached to John," Sherlock said, his face a carefully schooled mask. "His primary focus shifted from playing the game with me to keeping him. Moriarty then created the new secondary objective of forcing my cooperation with him. A press-gang partnership, if you will. Both objectives would have been achieved if not for Sgt. Donovan."

"And how do you know it was not merely a show to elicit a further emotional response?" Umbrella Man asked.

"Moriarty doesn't get his hands dirty, he never does anything directly. He had the man who shot John killed. Moriarty killed Sebastian Moran himself when he threatened John," Sherlock ran his hand through his hair again. "He's devoted. A sick, twisted devotion, but devotion nonetheless."

No one really knew what to say after that. Sally's stomach plummeted. She had seen Sherlock when the object of his devotion was beyond his reach. What would Moriarty's rage look like?

* * *

John came back to awareness in bits and pieces. Memories flitting in and out of his brain before he really had a chance to understand them. If even half of them were true, he was almost positive he didn't want to open his eyes.

There were fingers trailing through his hair. For one horrible moment he was convinced that what he thought was his last moment of consciousness was a dream conjured up by his abused mind. But the touch was gentle, careful. The fingers were long, dexterous, and familiar. So familiar.

"Sherlock," he chocked out, a small sob of relief.

"Shh," the familiar voice soothed. "I'm here."

John forced his eyes open to ensure his ears weren't playing tricks on him. Dark hair in unruly curls, even messier than usual, face so pale it looked white, his face even more gaunt than usual. Dark circles under his eyes, almost like he was the one with the broken nose. And a dusting of stubble across his face. John said the first think that jumped into his mind.

"I didn't know you could grow facial hair."

Sherlock let out a weak chuckle that would have been a laugh under normal circumstances. "It takes me some time to get going, and when I do, it's always patchy. Decided as a teenager it wasn't worth the bother."

John took in Sherlock's disheveled appearance, fixing on the fact that the detective was still wearing his sweater, now covered in John's blood and wrinkled almost beyond recognition. "How long have I been out?"

"Nearly twenty-one hours now," Sherlock said without glancing at a clock. He looked as if he were struggling with himself, but his need to know apparently won out in the end, from what John could see. "What do you remember?"

"Well," John said, debating what exactly to tell Sherlock, wondering what he already knew. He decided to go with bare bones – it would be easier on him and Sherlock both. "Torture. Lots of torture. Some screaming at the end. I passed out…you were there when I woke up. Moran, then Moriarty…" John ran into a bit of a mental block at this point, but fought his way through it. Sherlock apparently deduced what he was doing because by the time he remembered the details of the conversation Sherlock and Moriarty had had, there was a trash bin placed conveniently next to the bed.

Sherlock handed him a glass of water once his stomach was done heaving, his face expressionless.

"Are you alright?" John croaked out once he had downed the glass.

"No," was the simple answer.

"Did you mean it?" John asked, thinking back to those words the detective had whispered in his ear when they both thought Moran was there to end it all.

"Yes."

John decided he would have to settle for that and turned his attention to his surroundings. He was in a hospital room, and a fairly large one at that. All his injuries had been treated, if his bandages were anything to go on. The beeping of the machines in the background seemed all in order, but one sound froze John's blood cold.

He knew he was being ridiculous. It was just the IV drip, he knew that. But every time he heard the sound, he felt the drop on his forehead, over and over and over until he was sure that it wasn't water but acid that was eroding its way into his skull…

John hadn't realized Sherlock had climbed onto the bed behind him until he felt warm, familiar lips press tentatively to the side of his neck. John let himself lean back, listening to the meaningless soothing sounds the detective was making, taking comfort in the familiar warmth and the reassuring feeling of a heart pounding against his back.

"Better?" Sherlock asked about twenty minutes later.

"Much."

The detective moved to leave, but John grabbed him with his uninjured wrist. "Don't go."

"But your back…I don't want to hurt you, don't want to make things worse," Sherlock said, sounding conflicted.

"I need you."

Sherlock returned to his position behind John, wrapping his arms carefully around the injured man's body. John leaned into him, simply taking in the comforts of home, the feeling of something familiar, something safe.

The doctor had relaxed completely into his partner and was breathing deeply when he heard the words whispered in his ear once again.

"I love you, John."

Doctor Watson fell asleep with a smile on his lips.


	9. Considering the Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write fluff. I really did. But this happened instead.

Sherlock rested his head against the top of John's, arms wrapped protectively around his partner, staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. He was mapping out John's recovery in his head. The bullet had struck the left side of his lower back, missing everything vital but hitting one of the most painful places to be shot within the human body. John was going to need physical therapy, at least two months worth. The...burn...they couldn't do anything about it without John's consent - it wasn't life threatening, according to them. With the burn and the gunshot wound and the friction burns from the restraints, it would be at least three months, perhaps more, before their physical relationship could resume as it had before. Sherlock didn't care. As long as John was _here_ , was safe, Sherlock had all he needed. Now that he had him back, had his arms wrapped around John once again, he never wanted to let him go.

John's psychological recovery was another matter entirely. Given his reaction to the intravenous drip, John had developed some sort of hydrophobia. Considering the combination of Chinese water torture and water boarding, it was quiet understandable. The mere thought of Moriarty's possessiveness made John physically ill, and it seemed he was beginning to develop separation anxiety; Sherlock really couldn't comment on that without becoming hypocritical. Despite Sherlock's personal misgivings on the security issues created by the matter, John was going to need counseling to ensure his continuing mental health.

Sergeant Donovan glanced up when Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh. Sally was under the impression that she had been assigned for their security, but in reality Sherlock was watching over her while Mycroft arranged for the proper protection. She had saved John - he would do everything he could to prevent her from suffering for it.

"What's wrong, Freak?"

"John's recovery. I need to find him a therapist," Sherlock said, freeing one of his hands to tug at his hair. "Background and security checks, dossiers, recommendations...this is going to take ages. I don't have ages."

"You didn't do any of that for his doctors."

"Mycroft screened them, and Moriarty would not interfere with his medical treatment. I have no such assurances regarding his mental health," Sherlock said, returning his gaze to the ceiling.

John stirred in Sherlock's arms before slowly blinking his way back into consciousness. "Sherlock?" he asked, searching for reassurance.

"I'm here," Sherlock responded, applying slight pressure that allowed John to feel his physical presence without straining his injuries.

A few minutes passed in silence before anyone spoke again. Sherlock shifted slightly, studying John with concern when the doctor gave a small hiss of pain. His eyes had suddenly lit up, and he was staring at Sherlock with a challenging air.

"Hand me my chart," John demanded.

Sherlock swore internally. He had frankly been hoping to avoid this, or at least to distract John long enough until he could have come up with some sort of solution. John was fully aware of everything that had happened to him from a medical standpoint. There was only one piece of information he could get from that chart, and it was information that John never needed to know, information he never should know.

"No."

 _"Sherlock_..." he said warningly.

"No."

"Tell me what it says," he ordered in his Drill Sergeant voice. When Sherlock still held firm, he raised his voice. "I have a right to know Sherlock. I have a right to know what he did to _my_ back."

"What, the burns?" Sally asked, intruding into the conversation.

John gave a small start, noticing her for the first time. " _Thank you_ " he told Sgt. Donovan, his voice betraying the depth of his emotion. She nodded, hiding her fear for her safety quiet well as John took a few deep breaths.

"Not a burn," he told Sally, answering her original question. "A brand. And I want to know what the fuck is going to be on my back for the rest of my life. Does that seem unreasonable to you?"

Sally blanched, but then her face hardened. Sherlock could easily deduce what it was she was about to do.

"Don't. You. _Dare,_ " he hissed at her.

"He deserves to know, Sherlock. And whatever it is, you won't be able to hide it forever," she said, staring him down defiantly.

The Sergeant stood up, walked to the foot of John's bed, pulled out his chart and passed it to the doctor. Sherlock, anticipating a similar reaction to the one John had had after recalling his final confrontation with his psychopathic admirer, reached out and snagged a nearby bedpan.

He could tell by John's breathing when he found the relevant information. He didn't appear to be going through reverse peristalsis, but did seem to be hyperventilating.

Discarding the bedpan, Sherlock pressed his head into the crook between John's neck and shoulder, holding the doctor as tightly as dared, trying to press his own emotional response. He could still see the words on John's back in angry red. "JIM MORIARTY" - like a five-year-old claiming ownership of a new toy.

"Not very original," John commented suddenly, slowly winning the fight to control his breathing. "I was expecting something a little more creative from a criminal mastermind."

Sherlock gave a weak chuckle. Just like John to try and make a joke out of this, to put cheering Sherlock up at the top of his list of priorities.

"I've been thinking," said Sally suddenly, distracting both men, "and I've finally got it sorted."

"Got what sorted?" John asked, fixing his eyes and attention on the Sergeant, eager to have something else to focus on.

"What you are. Catnip, John. You're catnip for crazies."

Sherlock was seriously considering revoking his good opinion of Donovan. He was debating exactly which of his glares to fix her with when he heard a sound that meant all was forgiven - John's laugh. John was laughing.

"I suppose I am," he said, still chuckling.

* * *

John was without Sherlock for the first time in three days. The consulting detective kept muttering about all the things that need his attention when he though John was asleep. The man hadn't slept or eaten, and while he had changed into the fresh clothes Mycroft had brought him, he was in desperate need of a shower and a shave. Above all, Sherlock was going stir-crazy – it would not end well if he stayed in the hospital room much longer.

So, despite his personal reluctance, John had all but kicked Sherlock out of the hospital, demanding that he leave and not return for twelve hours, at which time he would help John check out. Sherlock had seemed absolutely torn between his need to feel productive, to be stimulated, and his need to never have John out of his sight ever again.

John had gently reminded Sherlock that they couldn't be together every second of every day for the rest of time. Sherlock looked as if he wanted to argue the point, but then John changed the "couldn't" to a very firm "will not." After much debate and several concessions in the form of recording devices within the room and the promise that afterwards John would not leave Sherlock's presence for the following ten days, the consulting detective left.

The doctor had to admit he had his own misgivings about being away from Sherlock. He felt clammy, shaky, and anxious. It was clear that they were both developing separation anxiety, and John wanted to nip that issue in the bud before it became a true problem. He found himself glancing at the clock frequently, waiting impatiently for the endless twelve hours to just be _over_. The seventh time John looked at it in the same hour, he asked Lestrade if he would be able to find him a book.

The DI poked his head out of the room, yelling at the police officers stationed exactly twenty feet away from the door for a paperback and a coffee. A few minutes later John was absorbed in a paperback and Lestrade was sitting quietly in the corner, taking the occasional sip from his cup.

John was brought out of his revere at the sound of the door clicking closed. A quick glance at the time made him shake his head. Sherlock had only managed to stay away four hours, although to be fair self restraint had never been a strong suit of the detective.

He turned to tell his partner as much, but it wasn't Sherlock walking towards his bed. The hair was blonde, the eyes were green, the dress was what he would describe as business casual – he might be unfamiliar to most, but the smile fixed on his face was ingrained in John's mind.

John opened his mouth to shout, his eyes turning in Lestrade's direction to call out warning. Lestrade was in the corner, eyes closed, still breathing, thankfully. His coffee had been drugged. Before John could even inhale properly, a hand was pressed over his mouth. Moriarty stood above him, a finger pressed against his lips.

"Don't want to worry dear Sherlock, do we Johnny?" he said, removing the hand over John's mouth.

"A little late for that, I would think," John said, fighting through his panic. He could try and run, but he didn't think he'd get very far with his injuries.

"I just wanted to see you one last time before your detective and Big Brother lock me in a dank, dark hole they think I won't be able to crawl out of." Moriarty lowered himself into Sherlock's chair, wincing.

John smiled. "How many of your bones did he manage to break?"

"Sixteen," Moriarty said, grimacing. "At least twenty four after he gets here. Worth it though," he says, shooting John a smile. "I just wanted to let you know I'll be thinking about you. Keeping an eye on you. Planning how we'll spend our time together." Moriarty reached out and tweaked John's nose. Despite his best efforts, John flinched. "We'll start with conditioning, I think. It isn't fair for me to be the only one who's enjoying myself."

" _JOHN!"_ Sherlock's voice bellowed from the other end of the hall.

"Looks like my time is up," Moriarty said, sighing sadly. "Get well soon," he said, placing a tender kiss on John's forehead.

"Burn in hell, Moriarty," John said, staring up at the ceiling and trying very hard to control his gag reflex.

"Call me Jim, my dear Johnny," he said, smiling that smile that made John's skin crawl. Then he attacked the doctor, pressing his lips to John's, forcing the former soldier's mouth open before probing with his tongue.

The door burst open with resounding crash and Sherlock stumbled in, clearly having used his own body as a battering ram, forcing it open through desperation alone. He righted himself before sprinting over, pulling Moriarty off the doctor and delivering a swift uppercut before flinging him aside.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked John, unable to manage more. " _Are you alright?_ " he demanded, checking John over for any visible signs of injury.

"Bedpan," John managed, feeling quite green in the gills.

Sherlock held it under his head quickly, clenching his jaw as John threw up yet again. This time was different though. There was blood mixed in with the bile.

John saw Sherlock's expression and reassured him. "Not mine. His. Bit the bastard's tongue when he tried to shove it down my throat."

Sherlock took seventeen breaths, trying to calm himself. It wasn't working. "Mycroft," he called without turning around. He knew if he looked at Moriarty now, he would not be able to control himself. "Get this… _thing_ out of here before I do something I will regret."

As soon as everyone had cleared out, Sherlock collapsed onto John's bed. John stroked his hair in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. When the detective looked up, John had to fight the impulse to wrap his arms around him. Sherlock looked so lost, so scared. John guided him closer before gently pressing his lips to Sherlock's. It was supposed to be gentle and reassuring, but it soon mutated into something born of desperation and terror and need.

"Don't ever do that to me again," said Sherlock. "I can't John…I just can't. Not yet. Don't make me leave you again."

"Okay," John panted, still short of breath from their kiss. "It's okay, Sherlock."

The two went back to Baker Street that night. And if Sherlock refused to let any time pass without somehow being in contact with the doctor, John didn't say anything. And If John clutched the detective's hand more tightly than was comfortable, well, Sherlock didn't say anything either.

* * *


	10. Beginnings of Recovery

Sherlock stared at the woman across from him, eyes narrowed in speculation. She stared back at him, unperturbed. The ticking of the second hand was the only sound in the room. Exactly two-hundred and ninety-three ticks later, Sherlock stirred.

"You're a trauma counselor."

She stared back at him, expression neutral, but her body language was open, inviting him to share.

"You come with glowing recommendations, the highest security clearance England has to offer, and it took me over an hour to hack your files," Sherlock paused. "I'm still not sure you're good enough."

She took that as the cue it was. "What happened, Mr. Holmes? You aren't rattled, you're terrified. Not used to caring-labeled a sociopath at an early age and embraced the definition with open arms. But something has changed..." she studied him carefully. "You found someone. Someone who makes you feel, makes you care. And something happened to..." another pause as she looked Sherlock up and down again, "...him. Must have been bad if _you_ think he needs counseling." She gave the detective a smile. "Did I pass your test?"

Sherlock allowed his lips to twitch. None of the others had realized he was doing it on purpose. "You managed to classify and correctly interpret every marker I showed. So I suppose you'll do." The detective ducked outside, grabbed an anxious and disgruntled looking John, and deposited him on the couch before perching on an open armchair.

"Dr. Denise Canterbury, Dr. John Watson" he said, gesturing back and forth as means of introduction.

"Counseling, Sherlock? We've been running all over London for the past week and a half to find me a _therapist_?"

"Yes."

"I don't need a therapist," John said, crossing his arms in a manner Sherlock had learned meant he was going to be especially difficult about something.

"Yes you do," Sherlock held up a hand when the doctor opened his mouth to interrupt. "John, you can't think about him without hyperventilating, the sound of his name makes you physically ill, and I've had to have people soundproof the flat while we've been out because the screaming was disturbing the neighbors."

"Sherlock," said John, looking incredulous, "you do know that I'm not the one shouting in my sleep, don't you?" The detective refused to meet his eyes. Of course he knew. That didn't mean that Mycroft needed to. "The one time since the hospital when I was out of your sight for more than four minutes, you had a panic attack. You're eating even less than usual and you refuse to sleep until absolutely exhausted because of the nightmares."

"You've developed hydrophobia."

"You almost attacked my physical therapist yesterday because she said 'dear'. If I need therapy, than so do you."

Sherlock weighed the pros and cons carefully. As repulsive as it was, there was only one solution. "Fine."

"What?" John asked, looking gobsmacked.

"I said, 'fine'. I'll have my head shrunk if it means you'll get the help you need."

Denise simply stared at the two before getting a determined look on her face and cracking her knuckles. "Right. It looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

* * *

Sherlock walked into 221 Baker Street, adjusting the bundle under his arms. This was the fourth of his forced half-hour outings, and it frankly wasn't getting any easier. His heart was racing, his hands were shaking, and the whole situation was _not good_. The only thing that allowed Sherlock to leave was the knowledge that Mycroft's best man (whose history had been gone over with a lice comb) was stationed in flat 221C, rented out for that specific purpose. Sherlock bounded up the stairs, long legs allowing him to take them three at a time before sliding to a stop outside the door to 221B.

After the first time, when Sherlock had burst through the door unannounced, only John's last minute adjustment and Sherlock's reflexes had kept him from being shot in the kneecap. From then on, Sherlock always announced himself before returning to the flat.

"John, it's me," he called. The detective waited precisely three seconds before opening the door, as long as he could force himself to wait.

John sat in his chair, Browning loaded and within easy reach. The TV was on, but it was being completely ignored. John rose from his position in a flash, and the two collided in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around one another and lips touching any bit of skin they could reach.

"Welcome home," John said once the two had calmed down a bit. Being apart was difficult, and afterwards there was always the need to physically convince themselves that the other was there and fine. His eyes found the item Sherlock had brought home, having been discarded on the couch in Sherlock's haste to reach John. "Is that a...Sherlock, have you brought home a puppy?'

"Oh," said the consulting detective, remembering the animal in question. "Yes. I've brought home a puppy. A female Doberman, to be precise. After considerable research I concluded that animals do seem to have positive psychological influences on humans. I also thought it might help with the separation anxiety. Dobermans are also one of the best breeds of guard dogs and very protective of their owners..."

Sherlock was cut off mid-monologue as John kissed him again.

"Good then?" Sherlock asked when John pulled away.

"Very, _very_ good," John clarified, giving Sherlock another kiss, this one slow and sweet.

"If I'd known you'd reacted like this, I'd have gotten the puppy _ages_ ago," Sherlock remarked, feeling slightly dazed.

John wasn't listening. He was crouched in front of the couch before the puppy. "Hello there. You're a tiny little thing," he said, offering the dog his hand. She gave it a curious sniff. "Brave too. Most puppies would be cowering, hiding in the cushions, but not you." The puppy, done sniffing, gave John's hand a lick. The doctor laughed. "Does she have a name?"

"I was under the impression that naming the animal was the traditional role of the owner."

"What should we call you, hmm?" John asked, reaching slowly forward, ensuring she wasn't scared, before scratching her gently behind the ears. He laughed when her little tail wagged enthusiastically.

Sherlock smiled, glad he'd managed to do _something_ right during the process of John's recovery. He'd just have to deal with the house training, and the chewing, and the messes, and…Sherlock sighed. But John was happy, that was what was important.

"Asclepia," John said suddenly, startling Sherlock out of his train of thought. The newly named Asclepia gave a bark, seemingly of approval.

Sherlock's eyebrows raised, surprised. He'd expecting something more ordinary, more mundane. "Greek mythology, John?"

"I loved mythology in school. And it fits, doesn't it? Medicine and healing and all that."

Sherlock looked down at the small bundle of black fur now clutched against his partner's chest, taking in the tender expression on John's face. "Yes. It certainly does."

* * *

Denise started at the youngest Holmes. She'd dealt with spies, assassins, and the victims of all sorts of unspeakable crimes. She had had her challenges, but Dr. Canterbury had always triumphed in the end. Despite all her experience, Denise was beginning to think she'd met her match in Sherlock.

Part of her was almost wishing she hadn't already done so much in regards to the separation anxiety; Sherlock was much easier to deal with when John was present. At least then he made an effort, right now he was simply staring out the window, deep in thought.

"What does it say about me?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"What does what say?" Denise asked, desperately hoping that they might be able to make some headway.

"Moriarty. We are _exactly_ the same. Until he took John, I was enjoying the game just as much as he was. I didn't care that people were in danger, that they might die, all I cared about was not being bored. I tried to tell myself that it was emotions that separated, but until John, I didn't let myself feel anything. What does it say about me that I can't find anything about us that makes us different?"

Denise's eyes widened. Sherlock was a master at burying things – she'd had no idea he was even remotely concerned about this. "Sherlock, describe John for me."

He looked at her like she'd lost her mind, but complied. "He's good, he's strong. Got an unshakable moral compass. John is brave, and I trust his judgment above all else. He always makes the right choice"

"Exactly, Sherlock. And John chose you. You said you trust his judgment. Do you think he would ever have chosen anyone _remotely_ like Moriarty?"

The consulting detective looked at her, deep in thought. Despite his best efforts, he smiled. "Good evening Dr. Canterbury. I'll see you on Monday when I bring John in for his session."

Denise smiled as Sherlock swept out, dramatic as ever. Perhaps she could manage to win this war after all.

* * *

John awoke to the sounds of barking and the voice Sherlock used when struggling to stay calm. The doctor closed his eyes and attempted to will himself back to sleep. Whatever was going on in the bathroom, he was sure he didn't want to know, and if admitted to himself he was awake, he would have to go stop whatever it was Sherlock was doing to the dog.

When Sherlock gave a shout of exaltation, John flung away the duvet and stumbled into the bathroom. "Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

There was a startled yelp and a splash from the toilet. A few moments later, a dripping wet Asclepia poked her head up from the bowl. Sherlock looked absolutely smug.

"You trained the dog to use the toilet," John said, trying to wrap his mind around the idea.

"It isn't as if it hasn't been done before. To be frank, I was sick of taking her outside at ungodly hours so she could do her business, and it always takes ages because she doesn't like being away from you. This seemed to be the best solution. And Asclepia certainly doesn't seem to mind."

John looked down, and despite the fact that she was soaking wet and stuck in the toilet, Asclepia's tail was wagging so hard her entire rear end was shaking. "Fine. Fine. But if she falls in _after_ she's used it, you're the one who's giving her a bath."

* * *

Denise held her head in her hands, praying for strength. When he was in the mood, Dr. Watson could be worse than his partner. Asclepia sat on the rug in front of her owner, shooting the psychologist a look of sympathy.

"Look, you have the medical report. I don't see why I have to tell you what he did."

"Doctor Watson, if you don't talk about what happened, there is no way you can move on."

He simply stared at her, face unyielding. She sighed. She had really hoped not to have to play this card, but desperate situations called for extreme measures.

"I never thought I'd see Sherlock top you for cooperation in a session, John."

Even though she had had her misgivings about the tactic, it seemed to work. The doctor kept glaring, but at least now he was talking.

* * *

After Asclepia had managed to get into the fridge and Sherlock's collection of body parts, John and Sherlock took a much needed trip to the pet shop. The dog really needed something to chew on other than human remains.

Sherlock was interrogating the clerk about the pros and cons of the various brands of toys and their structural integrities. John was petting Asclepia and trying not to think too much about his aching hip. The Doberman was sitting by the doctor's feet, propped ears swiveling around as she took in all the sounds, her stub of a tail wagging happily.

John had asked Sherlock about the ears and the tail – he knew it was illegal in England. Sherlock then explained that Asclepia's litter had been confiscated from a dog fighting ring. The idea had occurred to Sherlock when Lestrade had mentioned the case to Sherlock in passing, and he had gone to retrieve the puppy.

Those propped ears picked up sound extraordinarily well, however, and before John could really understand what was going on, he was being dragged towards the only other dog in the shop.

Asclepia ran over to the dog in question, tail wagging, and exchanged the customary greeting with him. Minutes later the two were playing as if they had been raised together.

"I'm so sorry," John said to the woman as the two went tearing off across the store. "She's friendly with other dogs, but Asclepia's never done that before.

The woman was flabbergasted. "He's awful, a bloody nightmare. Other dogs try to go near him and he bites them." She shook off her amazement and turned back to the manager, who she was arguing with. "Look, I knew having a dog was going to be a big responsibility, I'm not stupid. But this…this is beyond reasonable. He chews things, he digs at the floor, and he destroys the house whenever I turn my back. I'd expect this from a puppy, but from a grown dog? I've had enough, and you are going to take him back or I am going to put him down."

Before John really knew what he was doing or saying, he had a second leash in his hand. Sherlock came tearing around the corner. He stopped when he saw John was safe, but as he observed more he tugged at his hair.

"John, that's a Border Collie. Border Collies are one of the most hyperactive breeds and they have to be entertained every moment of every day. If they get bored they turn destructive. What were you thinking?"

"He reminded me of someone," John said, trying to fight off a smile.

"Who could _possibly_ remind you of a Border Collie?" Sherlock asked.

John just stared at him, eyebrow cocked. Sherlock's face lit up with understanding, then his brow furrowed in annoyance.

John smiled as he looked at the two dogs playing together. "I think we'll call him Locki."


	11. Immersion Therapy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After flirting briefly with smut in another work, we decided that this chapter would be our first date.
> 
> Translation: Slashy, smutty time ahead.

Sherlock hadn't been to a crime scene since the whole disaster with...him had begun. Lestrade had been bringing crime scene photos and cold case files by to help keep the boredom at bay, and perhaps as a sort of apology for what had happened in the hospital. That did nothing to help with John's boredom. His PT had finally said he was as good as he was going to get, and the suggestion had been met Dr. Canterbury's wholehearted approval. The next time Lestrade phoned, the two were out the door and in a cab in under a minute.

Sherlock flounced around the body once they had been escorted into the building, office building from the looks of things, making rapid-fire deductions that seemed completely absurd. He mumbled under his breath about needing to see the pine tree in the lot before shooting John a nervous glance. He grabbed the doctor, positioned him in front of a window, facing towards the interior of the building before ordering Lestrade to watch him as if his life depended on it (John had a sinking suspicion that it might).

John stared out into space, trying not to be too irritated that he had been left behind. He knew why; there had been grey clouds hovering forebodingly over the city since early that morning. It didn't make him any less annoyed about needing protecting from something as silly as the weather.

Lestrade, staring out the window, uttered a small chuckle and shook his head in a resigned manner. John turned around, unable to fight his curiosity.

Sherlock's black suit jacket was in an untidy pile at the foot of the tee, and the consulting detective was three quarters up the pine, white shirt and pale skin contrasting with the grey of the sky and the dark color of the evergreen. The wind blew his hair into his eyes and the water soaked through the button up, the thin material clinging to his body leaving nothing to the imagination.

John was outside in front of the tree before the DI knew what was happening.

"John?" Sherlock asked concerned, hopping out of the tree and landing next to his partner. "Are you al..."

John pressed his mouth firmly to Sherlock's, cutting him off midsentence. The doctor pinned him to the tree, hands planted firmly on Sherlock's hips as John probed his mouth using his tongue.

Sherlock threw his head back against the bark, eyes fluttered closed as John moved his attention to Sherlock's pulse point, his hands moving up from the detective's hips to ghost along his chest, fingers plucking gently at his nipples through the wet shirt. The detective tried to fight off the haze engulfing his brain, knowing there was some key piece of information he was forgetting as John pressed him more firmly against the pine, fisting a hand in the doctor's wet hair while using the other to pull John closer. Something very important, his sedated brain murmured as he stored the image of John against the backdrop of the raindrops and the grey sky for further enjoyment and examination at a later date.

Raindrops.

"John," he murmured against the doctor's lips, "it's raining."

"Excellent deduction. That would go a long way towards explaining why I'm wet," John said between kisses. Sherlock could tell he still didn't understand.

" _It's raining"_ he said, pressing his forehead against John's, grey eyes holding blue until he saw them widen in understanding.

"Oh. _Oh._ "

It only made everything more intense.

Lestrade had to shout four times before they heard his threat about arrest for indecent exposure. They didn't stop, simply relocated to a cab.

As soon as the door to 221B was shut behind him, Sherlock found himself pushed up against it. John's lips were locked to his as the doctor's steady hands made quick work of the shirt's buttons. Sherlock shuddered as he felt the doctor's fingers tracing fiery paths along the skin of his abdomen and back, eventually settling on his belt. He let out a loud moan as John's mouth, sucking and licking, followed the trail his hands had blazed, lowering himself to his knees. Sherlock's trousers joined his shirt on the floor.

"John," he forced out between clenched teeth, "if you don't stop now..."

John's response was to remove Sherlock's shorts.

"The bullet wound, your back..." he gasped out, head lolling back and resting against the door as he felt John's breath on his cock.

"Then I'll just have to be on top," The doctor whispered, fire in his eyes.

John knew he was doing his job right when Sherlock began spewing random, unrelated observations and deductions. He knew he was doing better when the detective began muttering a string of obscenities in French. The curses increased in volume and switched to English when John first began thrusting into him. Whimpering was next, and finally a horse cry of "John!" moments before the doctors own shout of "Sherlock!"

The detective ran his fingers down the doctor's back, tracing patterns only he could understand over the burned skin as the two lay next to one another, recuperating.

"Highly irresponsible," Sherlock said a subdued tone several minutes later.

"Hmm?' John muttered, still in a state of post-coital bliss.

"Taking such irreversible action without first confirming facts. This," he said, running his fingers over the letters, "is blatantly false. You are _mine_."

John rolled over, eyes full of emotion.

"But then again, I belong to you, so by the transitive property..."John's lips crashed into Sherlock's as his hand traced its way downwards. The detective was surprised to discover he was already half-hard. His recovery period was certainly increasing. Sherlock glanced at the edge of the bed and stiffened, grabbing John's hand.

"We can't John, not now," Sherlock hissed at him in response to the doctor's questioning look.

"And why not?"

"The dogs are watching."

John laughed.

* * *

"Sherlock, for the thousandth time, _no!_ "

"Twenty-third."

"What?"

"It was only the twenty-third time you told me no, not the thousandth. And I see no reason why not."

"We are guests. In my _parent's_ house. It isn't going to happen."

"If they assumed that our relationship didn't include sexual intercourse, then they would have provided us with separate accommodations," Sherlock pointed out, a predatory glint in his eyes as he stalked closer.

"Listen," John said retreating, "they've been good about all of _this_ ," he said, gesturing between the two. "I'm not going to push it by making them listen to you screaming my name. Now, get out of those pajamas and into something appropriate for lunch before my mother comes up to see what's taking us so long."

When Sherlock went to the closet to change, John took the opportunity to escape. It was only their second day at his parent's house and Sherlock was in top form - he was surprised they hadn't been kicked out already. John sat on the couch downstairs, head in his hands as he tried to pull himself together. He could do this. He _could._

His mother found him not too long after, perching beside him on the sofa.

"Trouble in paradise?"

"That man is… _impossible_."

"He does seem the type," his mother replied, nodding sagely. "Your father was an absolute nightmare at the start. It must be even worse for you, having to learn everything all over again."

"What?" John asked, unable to believe his ears.

"Now, I know most of the blokes I've been with like it if your swirl your tongue, and sometimes if you scrape your teeth very gently…"

"Oh god," John cried, jumping up off the couch. "No. No. We are not having this conversation. _EVER._ "

"It's nothing to get worked up over…"

"I can assure you, Mrs. Watson," Sherlock's baritone sounded from behind the doctor, "John is in need of no instruction in this area. He has quite a natural talent."

John's mother laughed, and the doctor collapsed back into the sofa, staring at the floor and praying that he was dreaming, that he was imagining things.

"How about you, Sherlock? I've got over sixty years of experience that've just been going to waste."

"It might be interesting to get another perspective," Sherlock mused.

"No. _No._ You are not going to discuss different _blowjob_ techniques with _my mother._ "

John stood up and turned to face Sherlock so he could make sure everything was crystal clear in his lover's massive, labyrinthine brain. He froze, his own mind disconnecting as he took Sherlock in for the first time that morning.

Sherlock owned a handful of clothes that drove John absolutely wild.

His favorite were a pair of skinny jeans, or _the jeans_ , as John thought of them, which John hadn't seen on the consulting detective since they'd first started sharing the flat. The skinny jeans that clung to everything and showed off his arse in a marvelous way.

The second best would have to be _the shirt_. The purple silk shirt that set off his eyes and skin just right, that was fitted perfectly across his chest and narrowed at his waist.

Sherlock was wearing them together.

"You _complete_ bastard. That's cheating."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock said, the look in his eyes completely undermining his words.

John was about to tell Sherlock exactly where to shove it (perhaps not the best imagery, all things considered) when his father appeared at the top of the stairs. The group walked out, and Sherlock, the git, made sure he was in front of John. For a man who'd been lacing his own shoes since the age of three, his laces kept coming untied at an alarming rate.

"I should've brought the dogs" John muttered under his own breath. They were his only real defense against Sherlock's raging libido.

The four settled down at the restaurant, where John thought he would have some sort of reprieve. He was, of course, wrong. As soon as his leg was underneath the table, Sherlock's hand was on his thigh, running his fingers in patterns that kept getting dangerously close to his groin.

Mr. Watson interrupted his son's thoughts of various ways to make Sherlock pay once they were back at Baker Street with what he thought was small talk.

"You consult for the police, sometimes, don't you Sherlock? Did you have anything to do with catching that bomber? Bloody nutter from what I've read."

Sherlock looked at John, concern clear in his features. John still sometimes had issues when the incident was in any way referenced, and Sherlock wanted to ensure he was alright.

The doctor looked a bit off, his pupils dilated and expression distant. After fifteen seconds, an interval so small most would not have noticed, John gave and almost imperceptible shake of the head before returning to the present.

"Yes, Da, Sherlock was involved. Excuse me a minute." John slid his chair back from the seat and made a beeline in the direction of the bathroom.

Sherlock was slightly confused. John didn't usually have such strong reactions to such casual comments about the ordeal. He waited precisely five seconds before standing up himself, muttering about needing to check on John. Sherlock saw the doctor ducked into the handicapped stall, leaving it unlocked, clearly indicating he had no objections to Sherlock's presence. The detective followed after John, closing and locking the door behind him.

John pinned him against the door, lips urgent against Sherlock's as he began undoing his belt. "You have exactly seven minutes before I am leaving this room and going back to the table."

"Oh," said Sherlock, John's reactions from earlier clicking into place. " _Oh,_ " he moaned again, turning his attention fully to the task at hand.

* * *

Denise looked at the two, the doctor and the detective and found herself once again at a loss for words.

"So, Sherlock, what you're trying to tell me is that you have developed you own variation on immersion therapy that has helped John recover from his hydrophobia?"

"Yes."

"And what exactly does this variation entail?"

The consulting detective shot John a gaze so heated that Denise might have gone weak in the knees had she not already been sitting.

"A damn good shag," was Sherlock's smug reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys still have work to do, but things are starting to calm down. This, of course, will not be allowed to stay this way. Because I'm evil. We'll leave them here and realativly happy. _For now..._


End file.
